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Only  One  Love 


OR 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR 


BY 

CHARLES  GARVICE 

AUTHOR  OF 

Claire,"  "Elaine,"  "Her  Heart's  Desire,"  "Leola  Dale's  Fortune,"  "Her 

Ransom,"  "Leslie's  Loyalty,"  "Lorrie;  or,  Hollow  Gold," 

"The  Marquis,"  "Only  a  Girl's  Love,"  "She 

Loved  Him,"  "A  Wasted  Love," 

Etc. 


CHICAGO 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 

407-429  DEARBORN  STREET 


M.A.    DONOHUE&cCOMPANY 

PRINTERS   AND    BINDERS 

4O7.429    DEARBORN    STREET 

CH  ICAGO 


ONLY  ONE  LOVE 

OR, 

WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR? 


CHAPTER  I. 

One  summer's  evening  a  young  man  was  tramping 
through  the  Forest  of  Warden.  "Forest  of  Warden" 
sounds  strange,  old-fashioned,  almost  improbable;  but, 
thank  Heaven,  there  yet  remain,  in  over-crowded  England, 
some  spots,  few  and  far  between  though  they  may  be,  still 
untouched  by  the  greedy  fingers  of  the  destroyers,  whom 
men  call  Progress  and  Civilization. 

To  this  grand  old  forest,  for  instance,  whose  dim  shades 
echo  the  soft  pit-pat  of  the  deer  and  the  coo  of  the  wood- 
pigeon,  comes  not  the  tourist,  with  hideous  knapsack  and 
suit  of  startling  check ;  no  panting  locomotive  belches  out 
its  cloud  of  coal  smoke  to  dim  the  brightness  of  the  sky 
and  choke  the  elms  and  oaks  which  reared  their  stately 
heads  before  their  fell  enemy,  the  steam  engine,  was 
dreamt  of. 

So  remote  and  unfrequented  is  the  forest  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  road  from  end  to  end  of  its  umbrageous  length, 
for  the  trail  made  by  the  rough  carts  of  the  woodmen  and 
charcoal  burners  could  scarcely  be  dignified  by  the  title  of 
thoroughfare,  and  a  few  footpaths  that  wind  about  the 
glades  are  so  faint  and  seldom  used  as  to  be  scarcely  dis- 
tinguished from  the  undergrowth  of  ferny  moss  around. 

Along  one  of  the  footpaths  the  young  man  tramped,  oc- 
casionally stopping  for  a  moment  to  look  up  at  the  sky 
which  shone  redly  through  the  openings  of  the  trees  or 
to  watch  some  frightened  hare  scamper  across  the  glade. 

Every  now  and  then  a  herd  of  deer  would  flit  through 
the  undergrowth,  turning  toward  him  distended  eyes  of 
alarm  and  curiosity,  for  of  the  two  kinds  of  men  with 


2125S28 


4  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

whom  they  were  acquainted — charcoal  burners  and  wood- 
men — he  was  neither;  nor  did  he  belong  to  the  tribe  of 
tourists,  for  he  carried  no  knapsack.,  and  instead  of  the 
inevitable  check  and  knickerbockers,  was  clad  in  a  loose 
Cheviot  suit,  which,  though  well  worn,  bore  about  it  the 
unmistakable  stamp  of  Saville  Eow. 

That  he  was  young  and  light-hearted  was  evident  from 
the  fact  that  he  broke  out  into  an  occasional  snatch  of  an 
air  from  the  last  new  popular  opera  bouffc,  notwithstand- 
ing that  the  evening  was  closing  in  and  he  had  most  com- 
pletely and  emphatically  lost  his  way. 

Now,  to  lose  your  way  in  a  forest  reads  rather  romantic 
and  entertaining  than  otherwise,  but  like  shipwreck,  or 
falling  into  the  hands  of  Greek  banditti,  it  is  a  much 
pleasanter  thing  on  paper  than  in  reality. 

A  bed  of  moss,  though  very  charming  in  the  daytime, 
is  not  nearly  so  comfortable  as  a  spring  mattress,  and  is 
sure  to  be  damp,  and  primeval  oaks,  majestic  and  beauti- 
ful as  they  are,  do  not  keep  out  the  draught.  The  worst 
room  in  the  worst  inn  is  preferable  to  a  night's  lodging  in 
the  grandest  of  forests. 

But,  though  he  had  never  been  in  the  Warden  Forest 
before,  the  young  man  knew  it  would  be  midsummer  mad- 
ness to  hope  for  an  inn  and  was  wandering  along  on  the 
chance  of  coming  across  some  woodman's  hut,  or  by  meet- 
ing a  stray  human  being  of  whom  he  could  inquire  his 
way. 

He  was  tired — he  had  been  walking  since  morning,  and 
he  was  hungry  and  athirst,  but  he  tramped  on,  and  smoked 
and  sang  as  carelessly  as  if  he  were  strolling  down  the 
shady  side  of  Pall  Mall. 

Slowly  the  sun  set,  and  the  glades,  which  had  been 
dusky  an  hour  ago,  grew  dark.  The  faint  footpath  grew 
still  more  indistinct,  the  undergrowth  denser  and  more 
difficult  for  persons  walking. 

The  pedestrian  fought  on  for  some  time,  but  at  last,  as 
he  stumbled  over  one  of  the  gnarled  roots  which  a  grand 
chestnut  had  thrust  up  through  the  ground,  he  stopped 
and,  looking  round,  shook  his  head. 

"A  regular  babe  in  the  wood,  by  Jove!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  sfiall  tiave  to  make  a  night  of  it,  I  expect.  Wonder 


WHO  WAS  THE  HJBJJ^? 


whether  tire  Fodins  will  be  good  enough  to  cor&r  me  over 
in  the  proper  nursery-book  style  ?  Is  it  any  good  halloing, 
I  wonder?  I  tried  that  an  hour  ago,  much  to  the  disgust 
of  the  live  animals  ;  and  I  don't  think  I  can  kick  up  a  row 
at  this  time  of  night.  Let's  see  how  the  'bacca  goes.  Hem  ! 
about  three  —  perhaps  four  pipes.  I  wish  I  had  something 
to  eat  and  drink;  what  a  fool  I  was  to  leave  that  piece  of 
steak  at  breakfast.  Steak  !  I  mustn't  think  of  it  —  that 
way  madnegs  lies.  Well,  this  looks  about  as  sheltered  a 
spot  as  I  could  find  —  I'll  turn  in.  I  wonder  if  anybody 
has,  ever  since  the  world  began,  hit  upon  a  short  cut?  I 
never  have,  and  hang  me  if  I'll  try  it  again.  By  George  ! 
the  grass  is  wet  already.  Such  a  likely  place  for  snakes  — 
find  my  pocket  full  when  I  wake,  no  doubt." 

Then,  with  a  laugh,  he  dropped  down  amongst  the  long 
brake  ;  but  the  idea  of  going  to  bed  in  a  forest,  at  the  early 
hour  of  nine,  was  too  much  for  him,  and  instead  of  com- 
posing himself  to  rheumatic  slumber,  he  began  to  sing: 

"Oh,  wake  and  call  me  early,  mother, 
Call  me  early,  mother,  dear/' 

Scarcely  had  he  finished  the  line  when  there  oame 
through  the  darkness,  as  if  in  response,  a  short,  sharp 
bark  of  a  dog. 

The  wanderer  leapt  to  his  feet  as  if  something  had  bitten 
him,  and  after  listening  intently  for  a  moment,  exclaimed  : 

"Another  chance,  by  Jove!"  and  sent  up  a  shout  that, 
ringing  through  the  stillness,  echoed  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
at  last  called  forth  the  answering  bark  from  the  distant 
dog. 

Knocking  out  his  pipe  as  he  ran,  he  made  his  way  as 
best  he  could  toward  the  sound,  shouting  occasionally  and 
listening  warily  to  the  dog's  response. 

At  last,  after  many  a  stumble,  he  found  himself  in  a 
narrow  glade,  at  the  end  of  which,  faintly  denned  against 
the  patch  of  sky,  stood  the  figure  of  a  man. 

"Saved,  by  George!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  with  mock 
melodramatic  emphasis. 

"Halloa!  Hi!  Wait  a  moment  there,  will  you?"  he 
shouted. 

The  figure  stopped  and  tiwaed  its  head,  tfcw>,  after 


6  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OE, 

what  seemed  a  moment's  hesitation,  brought  back  the  dog, 
which  was  running  toward  the  belated  youth,  and  suddenly 
disappeared. 

The  wanderer  pulled  up  and  stared  about  the  glade  with 
an  astonishment  which  immediately  gave  place  to  wrath. 

"Confound  his  impudence !"  he  exclaimed,  fiercely. 
"I'll  swear  he  saw  me !  What  on  earth  did  he  mean  by 
going  off  like  that?  Did  the  fool  think  I  was  a  ghost? 
I'll  show  him  I'm  a  ghost  that  carries  a  big  stick  if  I 

come  up  with  him.  Confound  him,  where "  Then,  as 

a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  he  set  off  running  down  the 
glade,  barking  like  a  dog. 

No  live,  real  dog  could  withstand  such  an  invitation. 
The  dog  ahead  set  up  an  angry  echo,  through  which  the 
youth  could  hear  the  man's  angry  attempt  to  silence  the 
animal,  and  guided  by  the  two  voices,  the  wanderer  struck 
into  a  footpath,  and  running  at  a  good  pace,  came  sud- 
denly into  a  small  clearing,  in  which  stood  a  small  wooden 
hut,  before  the  door  of  which  man  and  dog  were  standing 
as  if  on  guard. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  and  regarded  each 
other  in  silence,  the  youth  hot  and  angry,  the  man  calm 
and  grim. 

Each,  in  his  way,  was  a  fine  specimen  of  his  class ;  the 
man,  with  his  weather-beaten  face  and  his  thick-set  limbs, 
clad  in  woodman's  garb ;  the  youth,  with  his  frankly  hand- 
some countenance  and  patrician  air. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  leaving  a  man  in  the 
lurch  like  this  ?"  demanded  the  young  man,  angrily.  "Did 
you  take  me  for  a  ghost?" 

The  woodman,  half  leaning  on  his  long-handled  axe,  re- 
garded him  grimly. 

"No.  I  don't  come  at  every  man's  beck  and  call,  young 
sir.  What's  your  will  with  me  ?" 

"Why  didn't  you  stop  when  I  called  to  you  just  now?" 
retorted  the  youth,  ignoring  the  question. 

"Because  it  didn't  suit  me,"  said  the  man,  not  inso- 
lently, but  with  simple,  straightforward  candor.  "You 
are  answered,  young  sir ;  now,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  curiously,  conquering  his 
anger. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  7 

"Well,"  I've  lost  my  way,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  was  the  quiet  response. 

"To  Arkdale." 

The  woodman  raised  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment. 

"Arkdale?  Yes,  you  are  out  of  the  way.  Arkdale  lies 
to  the  west.  Follow  me,  young  sir,  and  I'll  show  you 
the  road." 

"Stop  a  moment,"  said  the  other ;  "though  you  declined 
to  wait  for  me  just  now,  you  would  not  refuse  to  give  me  a 
glass  of  water,  I  suppose." 

The  man  turned,  he  had  already  strode  forward,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  cottage  door. 

The  young  man  was  following  as  a  matter  of  course; 
but  the  woodman,  with  his  hand  still  on  the  latch,  pointed 
to  a  wooden  seat  under  the  window. 

"Take  your  seat  there,  sir,"  he  said,  with  grim  deter- 
mination. 

The  other  stared,  and  the  hot  blood  rose  to  his  face ;  but 
he  threw  himself  on  the  bench. 

"Very  well,"  he  said ;  "I  see  you  still  think  me  a  ghost ; 
you'll  be  more  easy  when  you  see  me  drink.  Look  sharp, 
my  good  fellow." 

The  woodman,  not  a  whit  moved  by  this  taunt,  entered 
the  cottage,  and  the  young  man  heard  a  bolt  shot  into  its 
place. 

A  few  moments  passed,  and  then  the  man  came  out  with 
a  plate  and  a  glass. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  young  man.    "What's  this?" 

"Cider — cake,"  was  the  curt  answer. 

"Oh,  thanks,"  repeated  the  other;  "jolly  good  cider, 
too.  Come,  you're  not  half  a  bad  fellow.  Do  you  know 
I  meant  to  give  you  a  hiding  when  I  came  up  to  you  ?" 

"Very  like,"  said  the  man,  calmly.  "Will  you  have  any 
more  ?" 

"Another  glass,  thanks." 

With  his  former  precaution  in  the  way  of  bolting  an<3 
barring,  the  man  entered  the  cottage  and  reappeared  with 
a  refilled  glass. 


8  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

This  the  young  man  drank  more  Leisurely,  staring  with 
unconcealed  curiosity  at  his  entertainer. 

It  was  a  kind  of  stare  that  would  embarrass  six  men  out 
of  ten,  and  madden  the  remaining  four;  but  the  woodman 
bore  it  with  the  calm  impassiveness  of  a  wooden  block, 
and  stood  motionless  as  a  statue  till  the  youth  set  down  the 
glass,  then  he  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  west. 

"Yonder  lies  Arkdale." 

"Oh!     How  far r 

"Four  miles  and  a  half  by  the  near  road.  Follow  me, 
and  I  will  put  you  into  it." 

"All  right,  lead  on/'  said  the  other;  but  as  he  rose  he 
turned,  and  while  refilling  his  pipe  stared  at  the  closely 
locked  cottage. 

"Comfortable  kind  of  crib  that,  my  man." 

The  woodman  nodded  curtly. 

"You  are  a  woodman?" 

Another  nod. 

"And  poacher  too,  eh?  No  offense,"  he  added,  coolly. 
"I  only  supposed  so  from  the  close  way  in  which  you  keep 
your  place  locked  up." 

"Suppose  what  you  please,"  retorted  the  woodman,  if 
words  so  calmly  spoken  could  be  called  a  retort.  "Yonder 
lies  your  road,  you'd  best  be  taking  to  it." 

"No  hurry,"  retorted  the  young  man,  thrusting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  smiling  at  the  ill-concealed  im- 
patience which  struggled  through  the  grave  calm  on  tlie 
weather-beaten  face.  "Well,  I'm  coming.  You're  not  half 
such  a  bad  sort,  after  all.  What  have  you  got  inside  there 
that  you  keep  so  close,  eh?  Some  of  the  crown  jewels  or 
some  of  the  Queen's  venison  ?  Take  my  advice,  old  fellow 
— if  you  don't  want  people  to  be  curious,  don't  show  such 
anxiety  to  keep  'em  out  of  your  crib." 

The  man,  pacing  on  ahead,  knit  his  brows  as  if  struck  by 
the  idea. 

"Curious  folk  don't  come  this  way,  young  sir,"  he  said, 
reluctantly. 

"So  I  should  think,"  retorted  the  other.  "Well,  I'm 
not  one  of  the  curious,  though  you  think  I  am.  I  don't 
care  a  button  what  you've  got  there.  WiU  you  have  a 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR? 

Tire  man  shook  his  head,  and  they  walked  on  in  silencv 
for  some  minutes,  the  footpath  winding  in  and  out  like  a 
dimly-defined  serpent.  Presently  it  widened,  and  the 
woodman  stopped  short  and  pointed  down  the  leafy  lane. 

"Follow  this  path/'  he  said,  "until  you  come  to  a  wood 
pile ;  take  the  path  to  the  left  of  it,  and  it  will  bring  you 
to  Arkdale.  Good-night,  young  sir." 

"Here,  stop !"  said  the  young  man,  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  with  a  dollar  in  it.  "Here's  a  trifle  to  drink  my 
health  with." 

The  woodman  looked  at  the  coin,  then  shook  his  head 
slowly ;  and  with  another  "good-night"  turned  and  tramped 
off. 

Not  at  all  abashed  the  young  man  restored  the  com  to 
his  pocket,  laughed,  and  strode  on. 

The  woodman  walked  back  a  few  yards,  then  stopped, 
and  looked  after  the  stalwart  figure  until  it  deepened  in 
the  gloom,  a  thoughtful,  puzzled  expression  upon  his  face, 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  call  up  some  recollection. 

With  a  shake  of  his  head,  denoting  failure,  he  made  his 
way  to  the  cottage,  unlocked  it  and  entered. 

The  door  opened  into  what  appeared  to  be  the  living 
room.  It  was  small  and  plainly  furnished,  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  woodman's  hut,  and  yet,  after  a  moment's  glance, 
a  stranger  would  have  noticed  a  subtle  air  of  refinement  in 
common  with  better  habitations. 

The  table  and  chairs  were  of  plain  deal,  the  walls  were 
ox*  pine,  stained  and  varnished,  but  there  was  a  good  thick 
carpet  on  the  floor,  and  on  one  side  of  the  room  hung  a 
bookcase  filled  with  well-bound  volumes. 

Beside  the  table,  on  which  was  spread  the  supper,  stood 
a  chair,  more  luxurious  than  its  fellows,  and  covered  with 
a  pretty  chintz.  The  knife  and  fork  laid  opposite  this 
chair  was  of  a  better  quality  than  the  others  on  the  table ; 
and  beside  the  knife  and  fork  lay  a  white  napkin  and  a 
daintily  engraved  glass;  the  other  drinking  vessels  on  the 
table  were  of  common  delf.  As  the  woodman  entered,  a 
woman,  who  was  kneeling  at  a  fire  in  an  adjoining  room, 
looked  round  through  the  doorway. 

"Is't  you,  Gideon  r 

"Yes,"  he  answered.    "Where  is  Una?" 


10  ON-LY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"Una?  Isn't  she  with  you?  I  heard  voices.  Who 
was  it?" 

"Where  is  Una  ?''  he  said,  ignoring  her  question. 

"In  the  clearing,  I  suppose,'"  said  the  woman.  "She 
went  out  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  thought  she  went  to  meet 
you?" 

The  man  opened  the  door  and  called  the  dog,  who  had 
been  wandering  round  the  room  in  an  uneasy  fashion. 

"Go,  Dick,"  he  said.    "Go  fetch  her  P 

Then  he  came  and  stood  by  the  fire  thoughtfully. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  was  not  Una.  I  wish  she  wouldn't 
leave  the  cot  after  dusk.v 

"Why  not?  What's  the  fear?  What  has  happened? 
Who  was  that  I  heard  with  you?" 

"A  stranger,"  he  said,  "a  young  gentleman  lost  his  way. 
How  long  has  she  been  gone  ?" 

"Not  ten  minutes.  A  young  gentleman.  Think  of 
that !  How  came  he  here  ?" 

"Lost  his  way.  He  followed  me  through  the  Chase.  He 
has  gone  on  to  Arkdale." 

"Lost  his  way,"  repeated  he  woman.  "Poor  fellow! 
Five  miles  it  is  to  Arkdale !  A  gentleman !  A  gentleman, 
did  thee  say?" 

"Ay,"  responded  the  man,  frowning.  "An  outspoken 
one,  too;  I  heard  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  Chase  and 
thought  to  give  him  the  slip,  but  he  was  cunning,  he 
teased  the  dog  and  ran  us  down.  I  had  hard  work  to  get 
rid  of  him;  he  looked  sore  tired.  No  matter,  he's  gone," 
and  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  'Tis  the  first  stranger  that 
has  come  upon  us  since  she  came." 

"Lost  his  way/'  murmured  the  woman,  as  she  lifted  a 
saucepan  from  the  fire,  "and  a  gentleman.  It  is  a  rare 
sight  in  Warden  Forest.  Why,  Gideon,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  thee?"  and  saucepan  in  hand,  she  stared  at  her 
husband's  cloudy  brow. 

"Tut — nothing!"  he  ^answered,  thrusting  a  projecting 
log  into  the  fire  with  his  foot.  "The  young  man's  face 
seemed — as  I  thought — 'twas  but  a  passing  fancy — but 
I  thought  it  was  familiar.  It  was  the  voice  more  than  the 
face.  And  a  bold  face  it  was.  I  wish,"  he  broke  off, 
"that  the  lass  would  come  in.  From  to-night  I  will  have 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  11 

no  more  wanderings  after  sunset!  One  stranger  follows 
another,  and  it  is  not  safe  for  her  to  be  out  so  late — 

"Hush!"  interrupted  the  woman,  holding  up  a  fore- 
finger. "Here  she  comes." 

"Not  a  word !"  said  Gideon,  warningty. 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened,  the  dog  bounded  in  with 
a  short  yelp  of  satisfaction,  and  close  behind  him,  framed 
like  a  picture  in  the  dark  doorway,  stood  a  young  girl. ' 


CHAPTER  II. 

She  had  evidently  run  some  distance,  for  she  stood  pant- 
ing and  breathless,  the  color  coming  and  going  on  her  face, 
which  shone  out  of  the  hood  which  half  covered  her  head. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  plain  cotton  dress  which  a  wood- 
man's daughter  might  wear,  and  which  was  short  enough 
in  the  skirt  to  reveal  a  shapely  foot,  and  scant  enough  in 
the  sleeves  to  show  a  white,  shapely  arm. 

But  no  one  would  have  wasted  time  upon  either  arm  or 
foot  after  a  glance  at  her  face. 

To  write  it  down  simply  and  curtly,  it  was  a  beautiful 
face;  but  such  a  description  is  far  too  meager  and  insuffi- 
cient. It  requires  an  artist,  a  Rembrandt  or  a  Gains- 
borough, to  describe  it,  no  pen-and-ink  work  can  do  it. 
Beautiful  faces  can  be  seen  by  the  score  by  anyone  who 
chooses  to  walk  through  Hyde  Park  in  the  middle  of  the 
season,  but  such  a  face  as  this  which  was  enframed  by  the 
doorway  of  the  woodman's  hut  is  not  seen  in  twenty  sea- 
sons. 

It  was  a  face  which  baffles  the  powers  of  description,  just 
as  a  sunset  sky  laughs  to  scorn  the  brush  of  the  ablest 
painter.  It  was  neither  dark  nor  fair,  neither  grave  nor 
sad,  though  at  the  moment  of  its  entrance  a  smile  played 
over  it  as  the  moonbeams  play  over  a  placid  lake. 

To  catalogue  in  dry  matter-of-fact  fashion,  the  face 
possessed  dark  brown  eyes,  bright  brown  hair,  and  red, 
ripe  lips ;  but  no  catalogue  can  give  the  spirit  of  the  face, 
no  description  convey  an  idea  of  the  swift  and  eloquent 
play  of  expression  which,  like  a  flash  of  sunlight,  lit  up 
eyes  and  lips. 

Beautiful !     The  word  is  hackneyed  and  worn  out.    Here 


1*  OXLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

was  a  face  more  than  beautiful,  it  was  soulful.  Like  the 
still  pool  in  the  heart  of  a  wood,  it  mirrored  the  emotion  of 
the  heart  as  faithfully  as  a  glass  would  reflect  the  face. 
Like  a  glass — joy,  sorrow,  pleasure,  mirth,  were  reflected 
in  the  eloquent  eyes  and  mobile  lips. 

Of  concealment  the  face  was  entirely  ignorant;  no  bird 
of  the  forest  in  which  she  lived  could  be  more  frank,  inno- 
cent of  guile,  and  ignorant  of  evil. 

With  her  light  summer  cloak  held  round  her  graceful 
figure,  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  picture  of  grace  and 
youthful  beauty. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  silent,  looking  from  the  wood- 
man to  his  wife  questioningly,  then  she  came  into  the 
room  and  threw  the  hood  back,  revealing  a  shapely  head, 
shining,  bronze-like,  in  the  light  of  the  lamp. 

"Did  you  send  Dick  for  me,  father?"  she  said,  and  her 
voice,  like  her  face,  betokened  a  refinement  uncommon  in 
a  woodman's  daughter.  "I  was  not  far  off,  only  at  the  pool 
to  hear  the  frogs'  concert.  Dick  knows  where  to  find  me 
now,  he  comes  straight  to  the  pond,  though  he  hates  frogs' 
music;  don't  you,  Dick?" 

The  dog  rubbed  his  nose  against  her  hand  and  wagged 
his  tail,  and  the  girl  took  her  seat  at  the  table. 

To  match  face  and  voice,  her  mien  and  movements 
were  graceful,  and  she  handled  the  dinner-napkin  like — 
ft  lady.  It  was  just  that,  expressed  in  a  word.  The  girl 
was  not  only  beautiful — but  a  lady,  in  appearance,  in  tone, 
in  bearing — and  that,  notwithstanding  she  wore  a  plain 
cotton  gown  in  a  woodman's  hut,  and  called  the  woodman 
"father." 

"You  did  not  come  by  your  usual  path,  father,"  she  said, 
turning  from  the  deerhound,  who  sat  on  his  haunches  and 
rested  his  nose  in  her  lap,  quite  content  if  her  hand 
touched  his  head,  say  once  during  the  meal. 

"No,  Una,"  he  replied,  and  though  he  called  her  by  her 
Christian  name,  and  without  any  prefix  there  was  a  subtle 
undertone  in  his  voice  and  in  his  manner  of  addressing 
her,  which  seemed  to  infer  something  like  respect.  "No, 
I  went  astray." 

"And  you  were  late,"  she  said.    "Was  anything  the  mat- 


WHO  WAS  TILE  HEIR?  13 

ter?"  she  added,  turning  her  eyes  upon  him,  with,  for  the 
first  time,  an  air  of  interrogation. 

"Matter?  No,"  he  said,  raising  himself  and  coming  to 
the  table.  "What  should  be?  Yes,  I  came  home  by  an- 
other path,  and  I  don't  think  you  must  come  to  meet  me 
after  dark,  Una,"  he  added,  with  affected  carelessness. 

"No?"  she  asked,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
smile  of  surprise.  "Why  not?  Do  you  think  I  should  get 
lost,  or  have  you  seen  any  wolves  in  Warden  Forest,  father  ? 
I  know  every  path  from  end  to  end,  and  wolves  have  left 
merry  England  forever." 

"Not  quite,"  said  Gideon,  absently. 

"Yes,  quite,"  and  she  laughed.  "What  Saxon  king  was 
it  who  offered  fivepence  for  every  wolf's  head?  We  were 
reading  about  it  the  other  night,  don't  you  remember  ?'' 

"Heading !  you  are  always  reading,"  said  the  woman,  as 
she  put  a  smoking  dish  on  the  table,  and  speaking  for  the 
first  time.  "It's  books,  books,  from  morn  to  night,  and 
your  father  encourages  you.  The  books  will  make  thee 
old  before  thy  time,  child,  and  put  no  pence  in  thy 
father's  pocket." 

"Poor  father !"  she  murmured,  and  leaning  forward,  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  "I  wish  I  could  find  in  the  poor, 
abused  books  the  way  to  make  him  rich." 

Gideon  had  put  up  his  rough  hand  to  caress  the  white  one 
nestling  against  his  face,  but  he  let  his  hand  drop  again 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  cloud  on  his  brow. 

"Hich !  who  wants  to  be  rich  ?  The  word  is  on  your  lips 
full  oft  of  late,  Una.  Do  you  want  to  be  rich  ?" 

"Sometimes,"  she  answered.  "As  much  for  your  sake 
as  mine.  I  should  like  to  be  rich  enough  for  you  to  rest, 
and" — looking  round  the  plainly  furnished  but  comfort- 
able room — "and  a  better  house  and  clothes." 

"I  am  not  weary/'  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
a  thoughtful  air  of  concealed  scrutiny.  "The  cot  is  good 
enough  for  me,  and  the  purple  and  fine  linen  I  want  none 
of.  So  much  for  me ;  now  for  yourself,  Una  ?" 

"For  myself?"  she  said.  "Well,  sometimes  I  think, 
when  I  have  been  reading  some  of  the  books,  that  I  should 
like  to  be  rich  and  see  the  world." 

"It  ttrast  be  such  a  wonderful  place  I    N0t  so  wonder- 


24  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OK, 

ful  as  I  think  it,  perhaps,  and  that's  just  because  I  have 
never  seen  anything  of  it.  Is  it  not  strange  that  for  all 
these  years  I  have  never  been  outside  Warden?" 

"Strange?"  he  echoed,  reluctantly. 

Yes;  are  other  girls  so  shut  in  and  kept  from  seeing 
the  world  that  one  reads  so  pleasantly  of  ?" 

"Not  all.  It  would  be  well  for  most  of  them  if  they 
were.  It  has  been  well  for  you.  You  have  not  been  un- 
happy, Una?" 

"Unhappy !  No !  How  could  one  be  unhappy  in  War- 
den? Why,  it's  a  world  in  itself,  and  full  of  friends. 
Every  living  thing  in  it  seems  a  friend,  and  an  old  friend, 
too.  How  long  have  we  lived  in  Warden,  father?" 

"Eighteen  years." 

"And  I  am  twenty-one.  Mother  told  me  yesterday. 
Where  did  we  live  before  we  came  to  Warden?" 

"Don't  worry  your  father,  Una,"  said  Mrs.  Eolfe,  who 
had  been  listening  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with 
ill-concealed  anxiety;  "he  is  too  weary  to  talk." 

"Forgive  me,  father.  It  was  thoughtless  of  me.  I 
should  have  remembered  that  you  have  had  a  hard  day, 
while  I  have  been  idling  in  the  wood,  and  over  my 
books;  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  trouble  you.  Won't  you 
sit  down  again  and — and  I  will  promise  not  to  talk." 

"Say  no  more,  Una.  It  grieves  me  to  think  that  you 
might  not  be  content,  that  you  were  not  happy;  if  you 
knew  as  much  of  the  world  that  raves  and  writhes  out- 
side as  I  do,  you  would  be  all  too  thankful  that  you  are 
out  of  the  monster's  reach,  and  that  all  you  know  of  it 
.is  from  your  books,  which — Heaven  forgive  them — lie 
all  too  often !  See  now,  here  is  something  I  found  in 
Arkdale;"  and  as  he  spoke  he  drew  from  the  capacious 
pocket  of  his  velveteen  jacket  a  small  volume. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet — not  clumsily,  but  with  in- 
finite grace — and  leaned  over  his  shoulder  eagerly. 

"Why,  father,  it  is  the  poems  you  promised  me,  and 
it  was  in  your  pocket  all  the  while  I  was  wearying  you 
with  my  foolish  questions." 

"Tut,  tut!  Take  your  book,  child,  and  devour  it,  as 
usual." 

Once  or  twice  Gideon  looked  up,  roused  from  bis  rev- 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  15 

crie  by  the  rustling  of  the  trees  as  the  gusts  shook  them, 
and  suddenly  the  sky  was  rent  by  a  flash  of  lightning  and  a 
peal  of  thunder,  followed  by  the  heavy  rattle  of  the  rain- 
storm. 

"Hark  at  the  night,  father !"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  book,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"Ay,  Una,"  he  said,  "some  of  the  old  elms  will  fall 
to-night.  Woodman  Lightning  strikes  with  a  keen  ax." 

Suddenly  there  came  another  sound  which,  coming  in  an 
interval  of  comparative  quiet,  caused  Una  to  look  up  with 
surprise. 

"Halloa  there!  open  the  door." 

Gideon  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  pale  with  anger. 

"Go  to  your  room,  Una,"  he  said. 

She  rose  and  moved  across  the  room  to  obey,  but  before 
she  had  passed  up  the  stairs  the  woodman  had  opened 
the  door,  and  the  voice  came  in  from  the  outside,  and 
she  paused  almost  unconsciously. 

"At  last !  What  a  time  you  have  been !  I've  knocked 
loud  enough  to  wake  the  dead.  For  Heaven's  sake,  open 
the  door  and  let  me  in.  I'm  drenched  to  the  skin." 

"This  is  not  an  inn,  young  sir." 

"No,  or  it  would  soon  come  to  ruin  with  such  a  landlord. 
It's  something  with  four  walls  and  a  roof,  and  I  must  be 
content  with  that.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  won't 
let  me  come  in?" 

"I  do  not  keep  open  house  for  travelers." 

"Oh,  come,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "It's  your  own  fault  that  I  am  back  here;  you 
told  me  the  wrong  turning.  I'll  swear  I  followed  your 
directions.  I  must  have  been  walking  in  a  circle;  any- 
how I  lost  my  way,  and  here  I  am,  and,  with  all  your 
churlishness,  you  can't  refuse  me  shelter  on  such  a  night 
as  this." 

"The  storm  has  cleared.  It  is  but  an  hour's  walk  to 
Arkdale;  I  will  go  with  you." 

"That  you  certainly  will  not,  to-night,  nor  any  other 
man,"  was  the  good-humored  retort.  "I've  had  enough  of 
your  confounded  forest  for  to-night.  Why,  man,  are  you 
afraid  to  let  me  in?  It's  a  nasty  thing  to  have  to  do, 


16  ONLY  O.NE  LOVE;  OK, 

but "  and  with  a  sudden  thrust  of  his  strong  shoulder 

he  forced  the  door  open  and  passed  the  threshold. 

But  the  woodman  recovered  from  the  surprise  in  a  mo-' 
ment  and,  seizing  him  by  the  throat,  was  iorcing  him  out 
again,  when,  with  a  low  cry,  Una  sprang  forward  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

At  her  touch  Gideon's  hands  dropped  to  his  side.  The 
stranger  sprang  upright,  but  almost  staggered  out  with 
discomfited  astonishment. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
a  man  other  than  a  woodman  or  a  charcoal-burner.  And 
as  she  looked  her  heart  almost  stopped  beating,  the  color 
died  slowly  from  her  face.  Was  it  real,  or  was  it  one 
of  the  visionary  heroes'  of  her  books  created  into  life  from 
her  own  dreaming  brain? 

With  parted  lips  she  waited,  half  longing,  half  dread- 
ing, to  hear  him  speak. 

It  seemed  ages  before  he  found  his  voice,  but  at  last, 
with  a  sudden  little  shake  of  the  head,  as  if  he  were,  as 
he  would  have  expressed  it,  "pulling  himself  together," 
he  took  off  bis  wide  hat  and  slowly  turned  his  eyes  from 
the  beautiful  face  of  the  girl  to  the  stern  and  now  set 
face  of  the  woodman. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  had  a  lady — ladies 
with  you?"  half  angrily,  half  apologetically.  Then  he 
turned  quickly,  impulsively,  to  Una.  "I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me.  I  had  no  idea  that  there  was  anyone  here 
excepting  himself.  Of  course  I  would  rather  have  got 
into  the  first  ditch  than  have  disturbed  you.  I  hope,  I 
do  hope  you  believe  that,  though  I  can't  hope  you'll  for- 
give me.  Good-night,"  and  inclining  his  head  he  turned 
to  the  door. 

Una,  who  had  listened  with  an  intent,  rapt  look  on  her 
face,  as  one  sees  a  blind  man  listen  to  music,  drew  a 
little  breath  of  regret  as  he  ceased  speaking,  and  then,  Avith 
a  little,  quick  gesture,  laid  her  hand  on  her  father's  arm. 

It  was  an  imploring  touch.  It  said^as  plainly  as  if  she 
had  spoken: 

"Do  not  let  him  go." 

"Having  forced  your  way  into  my  house  yon — may  re- 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  17 

"Thanks.     I  should  not  think  of  doing  so.  Good-night." 

"No;  you  must  not  go.  He  does  not  mean  it.  You 
have  made  him  angry.  Please  do  not  go !" 

The  young  man  hesitated,  and  the  woodman,  with  a 
gesture  that  was  one  of  resigned  despair,  shut  the  door. 

Then  he  turned  and  pointed  to  the  next  room. 

"There's  a  fire  there,"  he  said. 

"I'd  rather  be  out  in  the  wood  by  far,"  he  said,  "than 
be  here  feeling  that  I  have  made  a  nuisance  of  myself. 
I'd  better  go." 

But  Gideon  Kolfe  led  the  way  into  the  next  room,  and 
after  another  look  from  Mrs.  Bolfe  to  Una,  the  young 
man  followed. 

Una  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  looking  at  the  door 
behind  which  he  had  disappeared,  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Rolfe. 

"Shall  I  go,  mother?" 

"Yes.     No.     Wait  till  your  father  comes  in." 

After  the  lapse  of  ten  minutes  the  woodman  and  the 
woodman's  guest  re-entered.  The  latter  had  exchanged 
his  wet  clothes  for  a  suit  of  Gideon's,  which,  though  it 
was  well-worn  velveteen,  failed  to  conceal  the  high-bred 
air  of  its  present  wearer. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Rolfe  had  been  busily  spreading  the 
remains  of  the  supper. 

"  'Tis  but  plain  fare,  sir,"  she  said ;  "but  you  are  heart- 
ily welcome." 

"Thanks.  It  looks  like  a  banquet  to  me,"  he  added, 
with  the  short  laugh  which  seemed  peculiar  to  him.  "I 
haven't  tasted  food,  as  tramps  say,  since  morning." 

"Dear!  dear!"  exclaimed  the  wife. 

Una,  calling  up  a  long  line  of  heroes,  thought  first  of 
Ivanhoe,  then — and  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction — of  Hot- 
spur. 

Figure  matched  face.  Though  but  twenty-two,  the 
frame  was  that  of  a  trained  athlete — stalwart,  straight- 
limbed,  muscular;  and  with  all  combined  a  grace  which 
comes  only  with  birth  and  breeding. 

Wet  and  draggled,  he  looked  every  inch  a  gentleman — in 
Gideon's  suit  of  worn  velveteen  he  looked  one  still. 
aod  motionless,  Una  watched  him. 


18  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  ;  OR, 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  got  some  lunch  at  the  inn  —  'Spotted 
Boar'  at  Wermesley  —  about  one  o'clock,  I  suppose.  I  have 
never  felt  so  hungry  in  my  life.'" 

"Wermesley?'7  said  the  wife.  "Then  you  came 
from  -  " 

"London,  originally.  I  got  out  at  Wermesley,  meaning 
to  walk  to  Arkdale  ;  but  that  appears  to  be  easier  said  than 
done,  eh?" 

Gideon  did  not  answer;  he  seemed  scarcely  to  hear. 

"I  can't  think  how  I  missed  the  way,"  he  went  on.  "I 
found  the  charcoal  burner's  hut,  and  hurried  off  to  the 
left  -  " 

"To  the  right,  I  said,"  muttered  Gideon. 

"Right,  did  you?  Then  I  misunderstood  you.  Any- 
how, I  lost  the  right  path,  and  wandered  about  until  I 
came  back  to  this  cottage." 

"And  you  were  going  to  stay  at  Arkdale?  'Tis  but  a 
dull  place,"  said  Mrs.  Rolfe. 

"No;  I  meant  taking  the  train  from  there  to  Hurst 
Hurst  Leigh,"  repeated  the  young  man.  "Do 


you  know  it  ?  Ah,"  he  went  on,  "don't  suppose  you  would  ; 
it's  some  distance  from  here.  Pretty  place.  I  am  going 
to  see  a  relative.  My  name  is  Newcombe  —  Jack  New- 
combe  I  am  generally  called  —  and  I  am  going  on  a  visit 
to  Squire  Davenant." 

Gideon  Rolfe  sprang  to  his  feet,  suddenly,  knocking 
his  chair  over,  and  strode  into  the  lamplight. 

The  young  man  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

With  an  effort  Gideon  Rolfe  recovered  himself. 

"I  —  I  want  a  light,"  he  said;  and  leaning  over  the 
lamp,  he  lit  his  pipe.  Then  turning  toward  the  window, 
he  said  :  "Una,  it  is  late  ;  go  to  bed  now." 

She  rose  at  once  and  kissed  the  old  couple,  then  paus- 
ing a  moment,  held  out  her  hand  to  the  young  man,  who 
had  risen,  and  stood  regarding  her  with  an  intent,  but 
wholly  respectful  look. 

But  before  their  hands  could  join,  the  woodman 
stepped  in  between  them,  and  waving  her  to  the  stairs 
with  one  hand,  forced  the  youth  into  his  seat  with  the 
other. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  19 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  hearty  meal  after  a  long  fast  invariably  produces  in- 
tense sleepiness. 

No  sooner  had  the  young  gentleman  who  was  called, 
according  to  his  own  account,  Jack  Newcombe,  finished 
his  supper  than  he  began  to  show  palpable  signs  of  ex- 
haustion. 

He  felt,  indeed,  remarkably  tired,  or  be  sure  he  would 
have  demanded  the  reason  of  the  woodman's  refusal  to 
allow  his  daughter  to  shake  hands. 

For  once  in  a  way,  Jack — who  was  also  called  "The 
Savage"  by  his  intimate  friends — allowed  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  quarrel  to  slide  by,  and  very  soon  also  allowed 
the  pipe  to  slide  from  his  mouth,  and  his  body  from  the 
chair. 

Rousing  himself  with  a  muttered  apology,  he  found 
that  the  woodman  alone  remained,  and  that  he  was  sitting 
apparently  forgetful  of  his  guest's  presence. 

"Did  you  speak?"  said  Jack,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and 
struggling  with  a  very  giant  of  a  yawn.  Gideon  looked 
round. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Rather,"  assented  the  Savage,  with  half-closed  eyes; 
"it  must  have  been  the  wind.  I  can't  keep  my  head  up." 

The  woodman  rose,  and  taking  down  from  a  cupboard  a 
bundle  of  fox-skins,  arranged  them  on  the  floor,  put  a 
couple  of  chair-cushions  at  the  head  to  serve  as  pillows, 
and  threw  a  riding-cloak — which,  by  the  way,  did  not 
correspond  with  a  woodman's  usual  attire,  and  pointed  to 
the  impromptu  bed. 

"Thanks/'  said  Jack,  getting  up  and  taking  off  his  coat 
and  boots. 

"It  is  a  poor  bed,"  remarked  the  woodman,  but  the  Sav- 
age interrupted  him  with  a  cheerful  though  sleepy  as- 
surance that  it  needed  no  apologies. 

"I  could  sleep  on  a  rail  to-night,"  he  said,  "and  that 
looks  comfortable  enough  for  a  king !  Fine  skins  !  Good- 
night !"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Gideon  looked  at  it,  but  refusing  it,  nodded  gravely. 

"You  won't  shake  hands!"  exclaimed  the  Savage,  with 


20  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

a  little  fhish  and  an  aggrieved  tone.  '"Dome,  isn't  that 
carrying  the  high  and  imposing  rather  too  far,  old  fellow? 
Makes  one  feel  more  ashamed  than  ever,  you  know.  Per- 
haps I'd  better  march,  after  all." 

"No,"  said  Gideon,  slowly.  "It  is  not  that  I  owe  you 
any  ill-will  for  your  presence  here.  You  are  welcome,  but 
I  cannot  take  your  hand.  Good-night,"  and  he  went  to 
the  stairs. 

At  the  door,  however,  he  paused,  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Did  you  say  that — Squire  Davenant  was  your  uncle, 
Mr.  Newcombe?" 

"Eh — uncle?  Well,  scarcely.  It's  rather  difficult  to 
tell  what  relationship  there  is  between  us.  He's  a  sort 
of  cousin,  I  believe,"  answered  Jack,  carelessly,  but  yet 
with  a  touch  of  gravity  that  had  something  comical  about 
it.  "Eum  old  boy,  isn't  he  ?  You  know  him,  don't  you  ?" 

Gideon  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  did  by  the  way  you  looked  when  I 
mentioned  his  name  just  now.  Good  thing  you  don't,  for 
you  might  have  something  to  say  about  him  that  is  not 
pleasant,  and  though  the  old  man  and  I  are  not  turtle 
doves  just  now,  I'm  bound  to  stand  up  for  him  for  the 
sake  of  old  times." 

"You  have  quarreled  ?"  the  old  man  said ;  but  the  Savage 
had  already  curled  himself  up  in  the  fox-skins,  and  was  in- 
capable of  further  conversation. 

Gideon  Rolfe  crossed  the  room,  and  holding  the  candle 
above  his  head,  looked  down  at  the  sleeper. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "it's  the  same  face — they  are  alike ! 
Faces  of  angels  and  the  hearts  of  devils.  What  fate  has 
sent  him  here  to-night?" 

Though  Jack  Newcombe  was  by  no  means  one  of  those 
impossible,  perfect  heroes  whom  we  have  sometimes  met 
in  history,  and  was,  alas !  as  full  of  imperfections  as  a 
sieve  is  of  holes,  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  for  a  savage, 
was  possessed  of  a  considerable  amount  of  delicacy. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  mused,  "that  the  best  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  take  my  objectionable  self  out  of  the  way  before 
any  of  the  good  folks  put  in  an  appearance.  The  old 
fellow  will  be  sure  to  order  me  off  the  premises  directly 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  21 

after  the  breakfast;  and  I,  in  common  gratitude,  ought 
to  save  him  the  trouble." 

To  resolve  and  to  act  were  one  and  the  same  thing  with 
Jack  Newcombe.  Going  into  the  adjoining  room,  he  got 
out  of  the  woodman's  and  into  his  own  clothes,  and  care- 
fully restored  the  skins  and  the  cloak  to  the  cupboard. 
Then  he  put  the  remainder  of  the  loaf  into  his  pocket, 
to  serve  as  breakfast  later  on,  then  paused. 

"Can't  go  without  saying  good-by,  and  much  obliged/' 
he  muttered. 

A  bright  idea  struck  him ;  he  tore  the  blank  leaf  from  an 
old  letter  which  he  happened  to  have  with  him,  and  after 
a  few  minutes'  consideration — for  epistolary  composition 
was  one  of  the  Savage's  weakest  points — scribbled  the  fol- 
lowing brief  thanks,  apology,  and  farewell: 

"Very  much  obliged  for  your  kindness,  and  sorry  to 
have  been  such  a  bore; shouldn't  have  intruded  if  I'd  known 
ladies  were  present.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  accepting 
the  inclosed" — he  hesitated  a  moment,  put  back  the  sov- 
ereign which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket,  and  filled  up 
the  line — "for  your  wife." 

Instead  of  the  coin,  he  wrapped  up  a  ring,  which  he  took 
from  his  little  finger. 

He  smiled,  as  he  wrapped  it  up,  for  he  remembered  that 
the  wife  had  particularly  large  hands;  and  he  thought, 
cunningly,  "she  will  get  it." 

Having  placed  this  packet  on  the  top  of  the  cheese,  he 
took  a  last  look  round  the  room,  glanced  toward  the  stairs 
rather  wistfully — it  was  neither  the  woodman  nor  his 
wife  that  he  longed  to  see — gently  unbarred  the  door,  and 
started  on  his  road. 

Choosing  a  sheltered  spot,  the  Savage  pulled  out  his 
crust,  ate  it  uncomplainingly,  and  then  lay  down  at  full 
length,  with  his  soft  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  while  revolving 
the  strange  events  of  the  preceding  night,  and  striving 
to  recall  the  face  of  the  young  girl,  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  more  beautiful  spot  for  a  siesta  he  could  not  have 
chosen.     At  his  feet  stretched  the  lake,  gleaming  like  sil- 


22  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

ver  in  the  sun,  and  set  in  a  frame  of  green  leaves  and  for- 
est flowers;  above  his  head,  in  his  very  ears,  the  thrushes 
and  linnets  sang  in  concert,  all  the  air  was  full  of  the 
perfumes  of  a  summer  morning,  rendered  sweeter  by  the 
storm  of  the  preceding  night,  which  had  called  forth  the 
scent  of  the  ferns  and  the  honeysuckle. 

As  he  lay,  and  dreamt  with  that  happy-go-lucky  careless- 
ness of  time  and  the  daily  round  of  duties  which  is  one  of 
the  privileges  of  youth,  there  rose  upon  the  air  a  song 
other  than  that  of  the  birds. 

It  was  a  girl's  voice,  chanting  softly,  and  evidently  with 
perfect  unconsciousness ;  faintly  at  first,  it  broke  upon  the 
air,  then  more  distinctly,  and  presently,  from  amongst 
the  bushes  that  stood  breast  high  round  the  sleeping  Sav- 
age, issued  Una. 

The  night  had  had  dreams  for  her,  dreams  in  which 
the  handsome  face,  with  its  bold,  daring  eyes,  and  quick, 
sensitive  mouth,  had  hovered  before  her  closed  eyes  and 
haunted  her,  and  now  here  he  lay  at  her  feet. 

How  tired  he  must  be  to  sleep  there,  and  how  hungry ! 
for,  though  she  had  not  seen  the  note — nor  the  ring — she 
knew  that  he  had  gone  without  breakfast. 

"Poor  fellow !"  she  murmured — "his  face  is  quite  pale — 

and — ah !"  she  broke  off  with  a  sudden  gasp,  and  bent 

forward;  a  wasp,  which  had  been  buzzing  around  his 
head  for  some  time,  swept  his  cheek. 

Too  fearful  of  waking  him  to  sweep  the  insect  aside,  she 
knelt  and  watched  with  clasped  hands  and  shrinking  heart ; 
so  intent  in  her  dread  that  the  wasp  should  alight  on  his 
cheek  and  sting  him  as  almost  to  have  forgotten  her  fear 
that  he  should  awake. 

At  last  the  dreaded  climax  occurred ;  the  wasp  settled  on 
his  lips;  with  a  low,  smothered  cry,  she  stretched  out  her 
hand,  and,  with  a  quick  movement,  swept  the  wasp  off. 
But,  lightly  as  her  finger  had  touched  his  lips,  it  had  been 
sufficient  to  wake  him,  and,  with  a  little  start,  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  received  into  them,  and  through  them  to  his 
heart  the  girl's  rapt  gaze. 

For  a  minute  neither  moved ;  he  lest  he  should  break  the 
dream;  she,  because,  bird-like,  she  was  fascinated;  then, 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  23 

ihe  minute  passed,  she  rose,  and  drew  back,  and  glided 
into  the  brake. 

The  Savage  with  a  wild  throb  of  the  heart,  saw  that  his 
dream  had  grown  into  life,  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and 
looked  after  her,  and,  as  he  did  so,  his  eye  caught  a  small 
basket  which  she  had  set  down  beside  him. 

"Stay,"  he  called,  and  in  so  gentle  a  voice  that  his  friends 
who  had  christened  him  the  Savage  would  have  instantly 
changed  it  to  the  Dove. 

"Stay!     Please  stay.     Your  basket." 

"Why  did  you  run  from  me?"  asked  the  Savage,  in  a 
low  voice.  "Did  you  think  that  I  should  hurt  you?" 

"Hurt  me?  No,  why  should  you?"  and  her  eyes  met 
his  with  innocent  surprise. 

"Why  should  I,  indeed !  I  should  have  been  very  sorry 
if  you  had  gone,  because  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  last  night." 

"You  have  not  to  thank  me,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  quietly.  "But  for  you "  then 

he  stopped,  remembering  that  it  was  scarcely  correct  to 
complain  of  her  father's  inhospitality ;  "I  behaved  very 
badly.  I  always  do,"  he  added — for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  with  regret. 

"Do  you?"  she  said,  doubtfully.  "You  were  wet  and 
tired  last  night,  and — and  you  must  not  think  ill  of  my 
father;  he " 

"Don't  say  another  word.  I  was  treated  better  than  I 
deserved." 

"Why  did  you  go  without  breakfast  this  morning?"  she 
said,  suddenly. 

"I  brought  it  with  me,"  he  replied.  "You  forgot  the 
loaf !"  and  he  smiled. 

"Dry  bread !"  she  said,  pityingly.  "I  am  so  sorry.  If 
I  had  but  known,  I  would  have  brought  you  some  milk." 

"Oh,  I  have  done  very  well,"  he  said,  his  curt  way 
softened  and  toned  down. 

"And  now  you  are  going  to  Arkdale?"  she  said,  gently. 

"That  is,  after  I  have  gone  to  rest  for  a  little  while 
longer ;  I  am  in  no  hurry ;  won't  you  sit  down,  Una  ?  Keep 
me  company." 

To  her  there  seemed  nothing  strange  in  the  speech: 


24  OXLY  OXE  LOVE :  OR. 

gravely  and  naturally  she  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  an 
oak. 

"You  think  the  forest  is  lonely?''  she  said. 

"I  do,  most  decidedly.     Don't  you?" 

"No;  but  that  is  because  I  am  used  to  it  and  have 
known  no  other  place." 

"Always  lived  here?"  he  said,  with  interest. 

"Ever  since  I  was  three  years  old." 

"Eighteen  years!  Then  you  are  twenty-one?"  mur- 
mured Jack. 

"Yes ;  how  old  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  calmlv. 

"Twenty-two." 

"Twenty-two.  And  you  have  lived  in  the  world  all  the 
time  ?" 

"Yes — very  much  so,"  he  replied. 

"And  you  are  going  back  to  it.  You  will  never  come 
into  the  forest  again,  while  I  shall  go  on  living  here  till 
I  die,  and  never  see  the  world  in  which  you  have  lived. 
Does  that  sound  strange  to  you?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  never  been  outside 
this  forest?"  he  said,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow  to 
stare  at  her. 

"Yes.  I  have  never  been  out  of  Warden  since  we  came 
into  it." 

"But — why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  simply. 

"But  there  must  be  some  reason  for  it?  Haven't  you 
been  to  Arkdale  or  Wermesley  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Tell  me  what  they  are  like. 
Are  they  gay  and  full  of  people,  with  theaters  and  parks, 
and  ladies  riding  and  driving,  and  crowds  in  the  streets?" 

"Oh,  this  is  too  much!"  under  his  breath.  "No,  no — 
a  thousand  times  no !"  he  exclaimed ;  "they  are  the  two 
most  miserable  holes  in  creation!  There  are  no  parks, 
no  theaters  in  Arkdale  or  Wermesley.  You  might  see  a 
lady  on  horseback — one  lady  in  a  week!  They  are  two 
county  towns,  and  nothing  of  that  kind  ever  goes  on  in 
them.  You  mean  London,  and — and  places  like  that 
when  you  speak  of  theaters  and  that  sort  of  thing !" 

"Yes,  London,"  she  says,  quietly.  "Tell  me  all  about 
that — I  have  read  about  it  in  books." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  25 

"Books!"  said  the  Savage,  iu  undisguised  coiih'inpl; 
"what's  the  use  of  them!  You  must  see  lii'e  Tor  yourself 
— books  are  no  use.  They  give  it  to  you  all  wrong;  at 
least,  I  expect  so;  don't  know  much  about  them  myself." 

"Tell  me,"  she  repeated,  "tell  me  of  the  world  outside 
the  forest;  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"About  myself?     Oh,  that  wouldn't  interest  you." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  simply,  "I  would  rather  hear  about 
yourself  than  about  anything  else." 

"Look  here,  I  don't  know  what  to  tell  you." 

"Tell  me  all  you  can  think  of,"  she  said,  calmly ;  "about 
your  father  and  mother." 

"Haven't  got  any,"  he  said ;  "they're  both  dead." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  they're  dead,"  he  said;  "they  died  long  ago." 

"And  have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters?" 

"No;  I  have  a  cousin,  though,"  and  he  groaned. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Don't  be.  I'm  not.  He's  a — I  don't  like  him;  we 
don't  get  on  together,  you  know." 

"You  quarrel,  do  you  mean?" 

"Like  Kilkenny  cats,"  assented  the  Savage. 

"Then  he  must  be  a  bad  man,"  she  said,  simply. 

"No"  he  said,  quietly;  "everybody  says  that  I  am  the 
bad  one.  I'm  a  regular  bad  lot,  you  know." 

"I  don't  think  that  you  are  bad,"  she  said. 

"You  don't;  really  not!  By  George!  I  like  to  hear 
you  say  that;  but,"  with  a  slow  shake  of  the  head,  "I'm 
afraid  it's  true.  Yes,  I  am  a  regular  bad  lot." 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done  that  is  so  wrong,"  she  said. 

"Oh — I've — I've  spent  all  my  money." 

"That's  not  so  very  wrong;  you  have  hurt  only  your- 
self." 

"Jove,  that's  a  new  way  of  looking  at  it,"  he  muttered. 
"And" — aloud — "and  I've  run  into  debt,  and  I've — oh,  I 
can't  tell  you  any  more ;  I  don't  want  you  to  hate  me !" 

"Hate  you?     I  could  not  do  that." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  paced  up  and  down,  and  then 
dropped  at  her  side  again. 

"Well,  that's  all  about  myself,"  he  said;  "now  tell  me 
about  yourself." 


26  OXLY  OXE  LOVE :  OR, 

"No"  she  said;  "not  yet.  Tell  me  why  you  are  going 
to  Arkdale?" 

"I'm  going  to  Arkdale  to  take  a  train  to  Hurst  Leigh 
to  see  my  uncle,  cousin,  or  whatever  he  is — Squire  Dave- 
nant." 

"Is  he  an  old  man  ?" 

"Yes,  a  very  old  man,  and  a  bad  one,  too.  All  our 
family  are  a  bad  lot,  excepting  my  cousin,  Stephen  New- 
combe." 

"The  one  you  do  not  like?" 

"The  same.     He  is  quite  an  angel." 

"An  angel  ?" 

"One  of  those  men  too  good  to  live.  He's  the  only 
steady  one  we've  got,  and  we  make  the  most  of  him.  He 
is  Squire  Davenant's  heir — at  least  he  will  come  into  his 
money.  The  old  man  is  very  rich,  you  know." 

"I  see,"  she  said,  musingly;  then  she  looked  down  at 
him  and  added,  suddenly:  "You  were  to  have  been  the 
heir?" 

"Yes,  that's  right !  How  did  you  guess  that  ?  Yes,  I 
was  the  old  man's  favorite,  but  we  quarreled.  He  wanted 
it  all  his  own  way,  and,  oh — we  couldn't  get  on.  Then 
Cousin  Stephen  stepped  in,  and  I  am  out  in  the  cold 
now." 

"Then  why  are  you  going  there  now?"  she  asked. 

"Because  the  squire  sent  for  me,"  he  replied. 

"And  you  have  been  all  this  time  going?" 

"You  see,  I  thought  I'd  walk  through  the  forest,"  he 
said,  apologetically. 

"You  should  be  there  now — you  should  not  have  waited 
on  the  road  !  Is  your  Cousin  Stephen — is  that  his  name  ? 
^there?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

"Ah,  you  should  be  there,"  she  said.  "Squire  Davenant 
would  be  friendly  with  you  again." 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head 
there,"  he  said.  "I  rather  think  he  wants  to  give  me 
a  good  rowing  about  a  scrape  I've  got  into." 

"Tell  me  about  that." 

"Oh,  it's  about  money — the  usual  thing.  I  got  into  a 
mess,  and  had  to  borrow  some  money  of  a  Jew,  and  he 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  a? 

got  me  to  sign  a  paper,  promising  to  pay  after  Squire 
Davenant's  death;  he  called  it  a  post  obit — I  didn't  know 
what  it  was  then,  but  I  do  now ;  for  the  squire  got  to  hear 
of  it,  but  how,  hanged  if  I  can  make  out ;  and  he  wrote  to 
me  and  to  the  Jew,  saying  that  he  shouldn't  leave  me  a 
brass  farthing.  Of  course  the  Jew  was  wild;  but  I  gave 
him  another  sort  of  bill,  and  it's  all  right."' 

"Excepting  that  you  will  lose  your  fortune,"  said  Una, 
with  a  little  sigh.  "What  will  you  do?" 

"That's  a  conundrum  which  I've  long  ago  given  up. 
By  Jove !  I'll  come  and  be  a  woodman  in  the  forest !" 

"Will  you?"  she  said.  "Do  you  really  mean  it? — no, 
you  were  not  in  earnest !" 

"I — why  shouldn't  I  be  in  earnest?"  he  says,  almost  to 
himself.  "Would  you  like  me  to  ?  I  mean  shall  I  come  here 
to — what  do  you  call  it — Warden  ?"  and  he  threw  himself 
down  again. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  should  like  you  to.  Yes,  that 
would  be  very  nice.  We  could  sit  and  talk  when  your 
work  was  done,  and  I  could  show  you  all  the  prettiest 
spots,  and  the  places  where  the  starlings  make  their  nests, 
and  the  fairy  rings  in  the  glades,  and  you  could  tell  me 
all  that  you  have  seen  and  done.  Yes,"  wistfully,  "that 
would  be  very  nice.  It  is  so  lonely  sometimes !" 

"Lonely,  is  it?"  he  said.  "Lonely!  By  George,  I 
should  think  it  must  be!  I  can't  realize  it!  Books,  it 
reads  like  a  book.  If  I  were  to  tell  some  of  my  friends 
that  there  was  a  young  lady  shut  up  in  a  forest,  outside  of 
which  she  had  never  been,  they  wouldn't  believe  me.  By 
the  way — where  did  you  go  to  school  ?" 

"School?     I  never  went  to  school." 

"Then  how — how  did  you  learn  to  read?  and — it's  aw- 
fully rude  of  me,  you  know,  but  you  speak  so  nicely; 
such  grammar,  and  all  that." 

"Do  I?"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "I  didn't  know  that 
I  did.  My  father  taught  me." 

"It's  hard  to  believe,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  giving  up 
a  conundrum.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  mean  that  your 
father  would  have  made  a  jolly  good  schoolmaster,  and  I 
must  be  an  awful  dunce,  for  I've  been  to  Oxford,  and  I'll 


28  ONLY  ONE  LOVE  ;  OR, 

wager  I  don't  know  half  what  you  do,  and  as  to  talking — 
I  am  not  in  it." 

"Yes,  iny  father  is  very  clever,"  she  said;  "he  is  not 
like  the  other  woodmen  and  burners." 

"No,  if  he  is,  they  must  be  a  learned  lot,"  assented 
Jack;  "yes,  I  think  I  had  better  come  and  live  here,  and 
get  him  to  teach  me.  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  undertake 
the  job." 

"Father  does  not  like  strangers,"  she  said,  blushing  as 
she  thought  of  the  inhospitable  scene  of  tlie  preceding 
night.  "He  says  that  the  world  is  a  cruel,  wicked  place, 
and  that  everybody  is  unhappy  there.  But  I  think  he 
must  be  wrong.  You  don't  look  unhappy." 

"I  am  not  unhappy  now,"  said  Jack. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said;  "why  are  you  not?" 

"Because  I  am  with  you." 

"Are  you  ?"  she  said,  gently.  "Then  it  must  be  because 
I  am  with  you  that  I  feel  so  happy." 

The  Savage  flushed  and  he  looked  down,  striving  to 
still  the  sudden  throb  of  pleasure  with  which  his  heart 
beat. 

"Confound  it,"  he  muttered,  "I  must  go!  I  can't  bo 
such  a  cad  as  to  stop  any  longer;  she  oughtn't  to  say  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  yet  I — I  can't  tell  her  so !  No !  I  must 
go !"  and  he  rose  and  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  be  on  the  tramp." 

"Yes,"  she  assented :  "you  have  stayed  too  long.  I  hope 
you  will  find  that  the  Squire  Davenant  has  forgiven  you. 
I  think  he  cannot  help  it.  And  you  will  have  your  for- 
tune and  will  go  back  into  the  world,  and  will  quite  for- 
get that  you  lost  your  way  in  Warden  Forest.  But  I 
shall  not  forget  it;  I  shall  often  think  of  it." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  shan't  forget  it.  But  in  case  I  should, 
will  you  give  me  something — no,  I  won't  ask'  it." 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  wonderingly.  "Were  you  going 
to  say,  will  I  give  you  something  to  help  you  to  remember  ? 

"Yes,  I  will.  What  shall  I  give  you?"  and  she  looked 
around. 

Jack  looked  at  her.  His  bad  angel  whispered  in  his  ear, 
"Ask  her  to  give  you  a  kiss,"  but  Jack  metaphorically 
kicked  him  out  of  hearing. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  29 

"Give  me  a  flower,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  as  gen- 
tle as  its  deep  ringing  bass  could  bt;. 

Una  nodded,  and  plucking  a  dog  rose  held  it  out  to  him. 

"There,"  she  said;  "at  least  you  will  remember  it  as 
long  as  the  rose  lasts.  But  it  soon  dies,"  and  she  sighed. 

Jack  took  it  and  looked  at  it  hard.  Then  he  put  it  to 
his  lips. 

"There  is  no  smell  to  a  dog  rose,"  said  Una. 

"Ah  no !  I  forgot.  Just  so.  Well,  good-by.  We 
may  shake  hands,  Una.  That  is  your  name,  isn't  it? 
How  do  you  spell  it?" 

"U — n — a,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"It's  a  pretty  name/'  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"Is  it?"  she  said,  dreamily.  "Yes,  I  think  it  is,  now. 
Say  it  again." 

"Una,  good-by.     We  shall  meet   again." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Then  you  will  have  to  come  to 
Warden  again." 

"And  I  will.  I  will  come  soon.  Oh,  yes,  we  shall 
meet  again.  Good-by,"  and,  yielding  to  the  temptation, 
he  bent  and  touched  her  hand — Heaven  knows,  rever- 
ently enough — with  his  lips. 

A  warm  flush  spread  over  the  girl's  face  and  neck,  and 
she  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  the  first  kiss — 
except  those  of  hep  father  and  mother — that  she  had  ever 
received. 

"Good-by,"  he  repeated,  and  was  slowly  relinquishing 
her  hand,  the  hand  that  clung  to  his,  when  a  hand  of 
firmer  texture  was  laid  on  his  arm  and  swung  him  round. 

It  was.  Gideon  Rolfe,  his  face  white  with  passion,  his 
eyes  ablaze,  and  a  heavy  stick  upraised. 

The  Savage  had  just  time  to  step  back  to  avoid  the  blow 
and  plant  his  feet  firmly  to  receive  a  renewed  attack; 
but  with  an  effort  the  old  man  restrained  himself,  and 
struggling  for  speech,  motioned  the  girl  away  with  one 
hand  and  pointed  with  the  other  to  Jack. 

"You  scoundrel !"  he  gasped,  hoarsely.  "Go,  Una,  go. 
You  scoundrel !  I  warmed  you  at  my  hearth,  you  viper ! 
and  you  turn  to  sting  me.  Go,  Una — go  at  once.  Do  you 
disobey  me?" 

White  and  trenrBKng,  the  girl  shrank  farto  the  shade. 


80  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OK, 


villain!'*  went  on  the  old  man,  struggling  with 
his  passion. 

"Stop  1"  exclaimed  Jack,  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swell- 
ing ominously.  "You  must  be  mad  !  Don't  strike  me  ! 
—  you  are  an  old  man!" 

"Strike  you  !  No,  no  ;  blows  are  of  no  avail  with  such 
as  you  !  Curs  take  no  heed  of  blows  !  What  other  way  can 
one  punish  the  scoundrel  who  repays  hospitality  by  treach- 
ery? Was  it  not  enough  that  you  forced  your  way  into 
my  house,  broke  my  bread,  but  you  must  waylay  a  credu- 
lous girl  and  lead  her  in  the  first  step  to  ruin.  Oh,  spare 
your  breath,  viper!  I  know  you  and  your  race  too  well. 
Kuin  and  desolation  walk  hand  in  hand  with  you;  but 
you  have  reckoned  without  your  host  here.  My  knowl- 
edge of  you  arms  me  with  power  to  protect  a  weak,  in- 
nocent girl  from  your  wiles.  Scoundrel  !" 

"You  use  strong  words,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low 
and  hoarse.  "You  are  an  old  man  and  —  you  are  her 
father.  You  call  me  a  scoundrel;  I  call  you  a  fool,  for 
if  I  were  half  the  scoundrel  you  think  me,  you'd  be  to 
blame  for  any  harm  I  might  have  done.  I've  done  none. 
But  that's  no  thanks  to  you,  who  keep  such  a  girl  as  she 
is  shut  up  as  you  do,  and  leave  her  to  wander  about  un- 
protected. You  know  me,  you  say,  and  you  know  no  good 
of  me;  that's  as  it  may  be,  but  I  say  when  you  call  me 
a  scoundrel,  you  lie  !" 

"Yes,  I  know  you.  I  know  the  stock  from  whence  you 
sprung,  villains  all  !  I  thought  that  here,  at  least,  I  was 
safe  from  your  kind;  but  Fate  led  you  here  —  thank  Fate 
that  I  let  you  go  unhurt.  Take  an  old  man's  advice,  and, 
unlike  your  race,  for  onae  leave  the  prey  which  you  thought 
so  easy  to  destroy.  Go  !" 

"I  am  going,"  he  said,  grimly.  "I  shall  go,  because  if 
I  stayed  all  night  I  should  not  convince  you  that  I  am 
not  the  scoundrel  you  suppose  me.  But,  if  you  think  that 
I  am  to  be  frightened  by  these  sort  of  threats,  you  are 
mistaken.  I  have  said  that  I  will  come  back,  and  I  will!" 
and  with  a  curt  nod  he  strode  off. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  31 

CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Jack  Newcombe 
had  parted  from  Gideon  and  Una,  and  the  young  moon  fell 
peacefully  on  the  irregular  pile  of  the  ancient  mansion 
known  familiarly  for  twenty  miles  of  its  neighborhood  as 
The  Hurst. 

The  present  owner  was  one  Ralph  Davenant,  or  Semi  re 
Davenant,  as  Jack  Newcombe  had  called  him,  and  as  he 
was  called  by  the  county  generally. 

He  was  an  old  man  of  eighty,  who  had  lived  one-half 
his  life  in  the  wildest  and  most  dissipated  fashion,  and  the 
other  half  in  that  most  unprofitable  occupation  known  as 
repenting  thereof. 

I  say  "known  as,"  for  if  old  Squire  Davenant  had 
really  repented,  this  story  would  never  have  been  written. 

If  half  the  stories  which  were  told  of  him  were  true, 
Ralph  Davenant,  the  present  owner  of  Hurst,  deserves  a 
niche  in  the  temple  of  fame — or  infamy — which  holds  the 
figures  of  the  worst  men  of  his  day.  He  had  been  a 
gambler,  a  spendthrift,  a  rogue  of  the  worst  kind  for  one 
half  his  life ;  a  miser,  a  cynic,  a  misanthrope  for  the  other. 

And  he  now  lay  dying  in  his  huge,  draughty  bed-cham- 
ber, hung  with  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors — all  bad  and 
filled  with  the  ghosts  of  his  youth  and  wasted  old  age. 

As  it  was,  he  lay  quite  still — so  still  that  the  physician, 
brought  down  from  London  at  a  cost  of — say,  ten  guineas- 
an  hour,  was  often  uncertain  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead. 

There  was  a  third  person  in  the  room — a  tall,  thin  young 
man,  who  stood  motionless  beside  the  bed,  watching  the 
old  man,  with  half -closed  eyes  and  tightly  compressed  lips. 
This  was  Stephen  Davenant,  the  old  man's  nephew,  and,  as 
it  was  generally  understood,  his  heir.  Stephen  Davenant 
was  called  a  handsome  man,  and  at  first  sight  he  seemed 
to  merit  that  description.  It  was  not  until  you  had  looked 
at  him  closely  that  you  began  to  grow  critical  and  to  find 
fault.  He  was  dark;  his  hair,  which  was  quite  black,  was 
smooth,  and  clung  to  his  head  with  a  sleek,  slimy  close- 
ness that  only  served  to  intensify  the  paleness,  not  to  say 
pallor,  of  the  face.  Pallor  was,  indeed,  the  prevailing 
characteristic,  his  lips  even  being  of  a  subdued  and  half- 


32  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

tinted  red ;  they  were  not  pleasant  lips,  although  fop  every 
forty  minutes  out  of  the  sixty  they  wore  a  smile  which 
just  showed  a  set  of  large  and  even  teeth,  which  were,  if 
anything,  too  faultless  and  too  white.  Jack  said  that 
when  Stephen  smiled  it  was  like  a  private  view  of  a  ceme- 
tery. 

In  short,  to  quote  the  Savage  again,  Stephen  Darenant 
was  an  admirable  example,  as  artists  would  say,  of  "a 
study  in  black  and  white." 

As  he  stood  by  the  bed,  motionless,  silent,  with  the 
fixed  regard  of  his  light  gray  eyes  on  the  sick  man,  he 
looked  not  unlike  one  of  those  sleek  and  emaciated  birds 
which  one  sees  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  Ganges,  wait- 
ing for  the  floating  by  of  stray  dead  bodies. 

And  yet  he  was  not  unhandsome.  At  times  he  looked 
remarkably  well;  when,  for  instance,  he  was  delivering 
a  lecture  or  an  address  at  some  institute  or  May  meeting. 
His  voice  was  low  and  soft,  and  not  seldom  insinuating, 
and  some  of  his  friends  had  called  him,  half  in  jest,  half 
in  earnest,  "Fascination  Davenant." 

It  will  be  gathered  from  this  description  that  to  call  all 
the  race  of  Davenants  bad  was  unfair;  every  rule  has  its 
exception,  and  Stephen  Davenant  was  the  exception  to  this. 
He  was  "a  good  young  man/' 

Fathers  held  him  up  as  a  pattern  to  their  wayward  sons, 
mothers  patronized  and  lauded  him,  and  their  daughters 
regarded  him  as  almost  too  good  to  live. 

The  minutes,  so  slow  for  the  watchers,  so  rapid  to  the 
man  for  whom  they  were  numbered,  passed,  and  the  old 
cracked  clock  in  the  half-ruined  stables  wheezed  out  the 
hour,  when,  as  if  the  sound  had  roused  him,  old  Ealph 
moved  slightly,  and  opening  his  eyes,  looked  slowly  from 
one  upright  figure  to  the  other. 

Dark  eyes  that  had  not  even  yet  lost  all  their  fire,  and 
still  shone  out  like  a  bird's  from  their  wrinkled,  cavernous 
hollows. 

Stephen  unlocked  his  wrist,  bent  down,  and  murmured, 
in  his  soft,  silky  voice : 

"Uncle,  do  you  know  me  ?" 

A  smile,  an  unpleasant  smile  to  see  on  suck  a  faee,  glim- 
mered on  the  old  man's  lips. 


WHO  WAS  TMK  MEIR? 

"Here  still,  Stephen?"  he  said,  slowly  and  hollowh. 
"You'd  make  a  good — mute." 

A  faint,  pink  tinge  crept  over  Stephen's  pale  face,  I  mi. 
he  smiled  and  shook  his  head  meekly. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Ralph,  half  turning  his  eyes  lo  the 
physician. 

"Sir  Humphrey,  uncle — the  doctor/'  replied  Stephen, 
and  the  great  doctor  came  a  little  nearer  and  i'elt  the 
faint  pulse. 

"What's  he  stopping  for?"  gasped  the  old  man.  "What 
can  he  do,  and — why  don't  he  go  ?" 

"We  must  not  leave  you,  uncle,  till  you  are  better/' 

A  faint  flame  shot  up  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"Better,  that's  a  lie,  you  know.     You  always  were — 
Then  a  paroxysmi  of  f aintness  took  him,  but  he  struggled 
with  and  overcame  it. 

"Is — is — Jack  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  regret  to  say,"  he  replied,  "that  he  is  not.  I  cannot 
understand  the  delay.  I  hope,  I  fervently  hope,  that  he 
has  not  willfully " 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  dying  ?"  asked  Ealph,  watching 
him  keenly. 

"Can  you  doubt  it  ?"  murmured  Stephen,  meekly.  "I 
particularly  charged  the  messenger  to  say  that  my  cousin 
was  not  to  delay/' 

The  old  man  looked  up  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"I'll  wait,"  he  muttered,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  reso- 
lutely. The  minutes  passed,  and  presently  there  was  a 
low  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  servant  crept  up  to  Stephen. 

"Mr.  Newcombe  is  below,  sir." 

Stephen  looked  warningly  at  the  bed,  and  stole  on  tip- 
toe from  the  room — not  that  there  was  any  occasion  to  go 
on  tiptoe,  for  his  ordinary  walk  was  as  noiseless  as  a  cat's 
— down  the  old  treadworn  stairs,  into  the  neglected  hall, 
and  entered  the  library. 

Bolt  upright,  and  looking  very  like  a  Savage  indeed, 
stood  Jack  Newcombe. 

With  noiseless  step  and  mournful  smile,  Stephen  en- 
tered, closed  the  door,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Jack,  how  late  you  are !" 

With  an  angry  gesture  Jack  thrust  his  hands  in  his 


34  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OK, 

pockets,  and  glared  wrathfully  at  the  white,  placid  face. 

"Late!"  he  echoed,  passionately.  '"Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  that  he  was  dying?'' 

"Hush!"  murmured  Stephen,  with  a  shocked  look — 
though  if  Jack  had  bellowed  in  his  savagest  tone,  his  voice 
would  not  have  reached  the  room  upstairs.  "Pray,  be 
quiet,  my  dear  Jack.  Tell  you  !  Didn't  my  man  give  you 
my  message  ?  I  particularly  told  him  to  describe  the  state 
of  my  uncle's  health.  Slummers  is  not  apt  to  forget  or 
neglect  messages  !" 

"Messages!"  said  Jack,  with  wrathful  incredulity;  "he 
gave  me  none — left  none,  rather,  for  I  was  out.  He  simply 
said  that  the  squire  wanted  to  see  me." 

"Dear,  dear  me,"  murmured  Stephen,  regretfully.  "I 
cannot  understand  it.  Do  you  think  the  person  who  took 
the  message  delivered  it  properly?  Slummers  is  so  very 
careful  and  trustworthy." 

"Oh,"  said  Jack,  contemptuously.  "Do  you  suppose 
anyone  would  have  forgotten  to  tell  me  if  your  man  had 
told  them  that  the  squire  was  dying?  I  don't  if  you  do, 
and  I  don't  believe  you  do.  You're  no  fool,  Stephen, 
though  you  have  made  one  of  me,"  and  he  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"Stay,"  said  Stephen,  laying  his  white  hand  gently  on 
Jack's  arm.  "Will  you  wait  a  few  minutes?  Though  by 
some  unfortunate  accident  you  were  not  told  how  ill  my 
uncle  is,  I  assure  you  that  he  is  too  ill  now  to  be 
harassed " 

"Oh,. I  know  what  you  mean  without  so  many  words," 
interrupted  Jack,  scornfully.  "Make  your  mind  easy.  I 
am  not  going  to  split  upon  3rou.  Bah  !"  he  added,  as  Stephen 
shook  his  head  with  sorrowful  repudiation.  "Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  don't  know  that  your  man  was  instructed  to 
keep  it  from  me  ?  What  were  you  afraid  of — that  I  should 
cut  you  out  at  the  last  mordent?  You  judge  me  by  your 
own  standard,  and  you  make  a  vast  mistake.  It  isn't  on 
account  of  the  money — you  are  welcome  to  that — and  you 
deserve  it,  for  you've  worked  hard  enough  for  it;  no.  it's 
not  on  that  account,  it's — but  you  wouldn't  understand  if 
I  told  you.  I  am  going  up  now,"  and  he  sprang  up  the 
stairs  quickly. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEllir  35 

Stephen  followed  him,  and  entered  the  room  close  be- 
hind him.  The  old  man  looked  up,  motioned  with  his 
hand  to  Jack,  looked  at  the  other  two  and  quietly  pointed 
to  the  door. 

Stephen's  eyes  closed  and  his  lips  shut  as  he  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  then  he  turned  and  left  with  the  physician. 

"I  think,"  said  Sir  Humphrey,  blandly,  and  looking  at 
his  watch — one  of  a  score  left  him  by  departed  patients., 
"I  think  that  I  will  go  now,  Mr.  Davenant;  I  can  do  no 
good  and  my  presence  appears  only  to  irritate  your  uncle." 

The  great  doctor  departed,  just  thirty  guineas  richer 
than  when  he  came,  and  Stephen  went  into  the  library  and 
closed  the  door,  and  as  he  did  so  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he 
had  taken  off  a  mask  and  left  it  on  the  mat  outside. 

The  set,  calm  expression  of  the  face  changed  to  one  of 
fierce,  uncontrollable  anxiety  and  malice.  With  sullen 
step  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  gnawing — but 
daintily — at  his  nails,  and  grinding  the  white  tombstones. 

"Another  half  hour,"  he  muttered,  "and  the  fool  would 
have  been  too  late?  Will  he  tell  the  old  man?  Curse 
him ;  how  I  hate  him !  I  was  a  fool  to  send  for  him — an 
idiot  1  What  is  he  saying  to  him  ?  What  are  they  doing  ? 
Thank  Heaven,  that  old  knave  Hudsley  isn't  there !  They 
can't  do  anything — can't,  can't!  No,  I  am  safe." 

Stephen  Davenant  need  not  have  been  so  uneasy ;  Jack 
was  not  plotting  against  him,  nor  was  the  old  man  making 
a  will  in  the  Savage's  favor. 

Jack  stood  beside  the  bed,  waiting  for  one  of  the  at- 
tacks of  faintness  to  pass,  looking  down  regretfully  at  the 
haggard,  death-marked  face,  recalling  the  past  kindnesses 
he  had  received  from  the  old  man,  and  remorsefully  re- 
membering their  many  quarrels  and  eventful  separation. 

"Bad  lot"  as  he  was,  no  thought  of  lucre  crossed  the 
Savage's  mind;  he  forgot  even  Stephen  and  the  cowardly 
trick  he  had  played  him,  and  remembered  only  that  he 
was  looking  his  last  on  the  old  man,  who,  after  his  kind, 
had  been  good,  and  so  far  as  his  nature  would  allow  it, 
generous  to  him. 

At  last  old  Ralph  opened  his  eyes. 

"Here  at  last,"  he  said ;  and  by  an  effort  of  the  resolute 


36  ONLY  OXK  .LOVE:  OK, 

will,  he  made  himself  heard  distinctly,  though  every  word 
cost  him  a  breath.- 

"Fmj  sorry  I'm  so  late,"  he  said;  and  his  voice  was 
husky.  "I  didn't  know— 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  shrewdly. 

"So  Stephen  didn't  send?  It  was  just  like  him.  A 
good  stroke." 

"Yes,  he  sent,"  said  Jack;  "but " 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand  to  show  that  he  under- 
stood. 

"A  sharp  stroke.  A  clever  fellow,  Stephen.  You  al- 
ways were  a  fool." 

"I'm  afraid  so,  sir,"  he  said  quietly. 

"But  Stephen  is  a  knave,  and  a  fool,  too,"  murmured 
the  old  man.  "Jack,  I  wish — I  wish  I  could  come  back  to 
the  funeral." 

"To  see  his  face  when  the  will's  read,"  explained  old 
Ralph,  with  a  grim  smile. 

Jack  colored,  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  grinned. 

A  sardonic  smile  flitted  over  the  old  man's  face. 

"Be  sure  you  are  there,  Jack;  don't  let  him  keep  you 
away." 

"Not  that  you  will  be  disappointed — much,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"Don't  think  of  me,  sir,"  said  Jack,  with  a  dim  sense 
of  the  discordance  in  such  talk  from  such  lips. 

"I  have  thought  of  you  as  far — as — as  I  dared.  Jack, 
you  are  an  honest  fool.  Why — why  did  you  give  that 
post  oUt?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jack,  quietly.  "Don/t  worry  about 
that  now." 

"Stephen  told  me,"  said  the  old  man,  grimly.  "He  has 
told  me  every  piece  of  wickedness  you  have  done.  He  is 
a  kind-hearted  man,  is — Ste — phen." 

"We  never  were  friends,  sir,"  he  said.  "But  don't  talk 
now." 

"I  must,"  murmured  the  old  man.  "Xow  or  never,  and — 
give  me  your  hand,  Jack." 

"I've  had  yours  ever  since  I  came  in,"  said  Jack,  simply. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  it.  Good-by.  boy— don't— don't  end 
up  like  ihis.  It— and — and — for  Heaven's  sake  don't  cry !" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HElJi? 

for  Jack  emitted  a  suspicious  little  choking  sound,  and  his 
eyes  were  dim.  "Good-by;  don't  be  too  disappointed.  Jus- 
tice, Jack,  justice.  Where  is  Stephen? — send  him  to  rue. 
I" — and  the  old  sardonic  smjle  came  back — "I  like  to  see 
him — he  amuses  me !" 

The  eyes  closed;  Jack  waited  a  moment,  then  pressed 
the  cold  hand,  and  crept  from  the  room. 

Half  way  down  the  stairs  he  leaned  his  arm  on  the 
balustrade  and  dropped  his  face  on  it  for  a  minute  or  two, 
then  choking  back  his  tears,  went  into  the  library — where 
Stephen  was  sitting  reading  a  volume  of  sermons — and 
pointed  up-stairs. 

"My  uncle  wants  me?"  murmured  Stephen.  "I  will  go. 
Might  I  recommend  this  book  to  you,  my  dear  Jack;  it 
contains " 

Jack,  I  regret  to  say,  chucked  the  volume  into  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  Stephen,  with  a  mournfully  reproachful 
sigh,  shook  his  head  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

"Villains,"  says  an  old  adage,  "are  made  by  accident." 
Now  mark  how  accident  helped  to  make  a  villain  of  the 
good  Stephen  Davenant. 

He  passed  up  the  stairs  and  entered  the  bedroom.  As  he 
did  so  his  foot  struck  against  a  chair  and  caused  a  little 
noise.  The  dying  man  heard  it,  however,  and  opening  his 
eyes,  said,  almost  inaudibly : 

"Is  that  you,  Hudsley?" 

Stephen  was  about  to  reply,  "No,  it  is  I — Stephen,"  but 
stopped,  hesitated,  and  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  drew 
back  behind  the  bed-curtains. 

Whatever  that  idea  was,  he  was  considerably  moved  by 
it ;  his  hands  shook,  and  his  lips  trembled  during  the  inter- 
val of  silence  before  the  old  man  repeated  the  question : 

"Is  that  you,  Hudsley?" 

Then  Stephen,  wiping  his  lips,  answered  in  a  dry  voice 
utterly  unlike  his  own,  but  very  remarkably  resembling 
that  of  the  old  solicitor,  Hudsley: 

"Yes,  squire,  it's  Hudsley." 

The  dying  man's  hearing  was  faint,  his  senses  wander- 


38  OX  I  A"  OX.E  LOVE;  Oil, 

ing  and  dimmed;  lie  caught  the  sense  of  the  words,  how- 
ever, for  with  an  effort  he  turned  his  head  toward  the  cur- 
tains. 

"Where  are  you?"'  he  asked,  almost  inaudibly;  "I  can't 
see  you ;  my  sight  has  gone.  You  have  been  a  long  while 
coming.  Hudsley,  you  thought  you — knew — everything 
about  the  man  who  lies  here;  you  were  wrong.  There's  a 
surprise  for  you  as  well  as  the  rest.  Did  you  see  Jack?" 

Stephen  had  no  need  to  reply ;  the  old  man  rambled  on 
without  waiting,  excepting  to  struggle  for  breath. 

"He  is  down-stairs.  Poor  boy !  it's  a  pity  he  is  such  a 
fool.  There  was  always  one  like  him  in  the  Newcombe 
family.  But  the  other — Stephen — the  man  who  has  been 
hanging  about  me  all  this  time,  eager  to  lick  my  boots 
so  that  he  might  step  into  them  when  I  was  gone;  he  is 
a  fool  and  a  knave/' 

Stephen's  face  went  white  and  his  lips  twitched.  It  is 
probable  that  he  remembered  the  adage:  "Listeners  hear 
no  good  of  themselves." 

"He  is  the  first  of  his  kind  we  have  had  in  the  family. 
Plenty  of  fools  and  scamps,  Hudsley,  but  no  hypocrites 
till  this  one.  Well,  he'll  get  his  deserts.  I'd  give  a 
thousand  pounds  to  come  back  and  hear  the  will  read,  and 
see  his  face.  He  makes  so  sure  of  it,  too,  the  oily  eel !" 

Stephen  writhed  like  an  eel,  indeed,  and  his  lips 
blanched.  Was  the  old  man  delirious,  or  had  he,  Stephen, 
really  played  the  part  of  sycophant,  toady  and  boot-licker 
all  these  years  for  nothing? 

Great  drops  of  sweat  rolled  down  is  face,  is  tongue 
clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  his  knees  shook  so 
that  he  had  to  steady  himself  by  holding  the  curtain. 

"Yes,  disappointed  all.  You  don't  understand.  You 
think  that  you  know  everything.  But  no ;  I  trusted  you 
with  a  great  deal,  but  not  with  all.  How  dark  it  is ! 
Hudsley,  you  are  an  old  man;  don't  finish  up  like — like 
this.  Only  one  soul  in  the  wide  world  is  sorry  that  I'm 
going;  and  he's  a  fool.  Poor  Jack!  I  remember " 

Then  followed,  half  inaudibly,  a  string  of  names  be- 
longing to  the  companions  of  his  youth.  Most  of  them 
were  dead  and  forgotten  by  him  until  this  hour,  when  he 
was  about  to  join  their  shades. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  .",«> 

"Ah,  the  old  time!   the  old  time.    But — but — what  was 
it  I  was  saying?     I — I — Hudsley — quick!    for  Heaven's 


sake!  I — the  key — the  key- 
Stephen  came  round,  in  his  eagerness  risking  recog- 
nition. 

"The  key?"  he  asked,  so  hoarsely  that  his  voice  might 
well  be  taken  for  an  old  man's.  "What  key?" 

"Feel — under  my  pillow  !*'  gasped  Balph  Davenant. 

Stephen  thrust  his  trembling  hand  under  the  pillow, 
and,  with  a  leap  of  the  heart,  felt  a  key. 

"The  safe !"  miurmured  a  faltering  voice.  "The  bot- 
tom drawer.  Bring  them  to  me!  Quick!" 

Stephen  glided  snake-like  across  the  room  to  a  small 
safe  that  stood  in  a  recess,  opened  the  door,  and  with 
trembling  hands  drew  out  the  drawer!  His  hands  shook 
so,  his  heart  beat  to  such  an  extent,  that  as  a  movement 
in  the  next  room  struck  upon  his  ears,  he  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  shrieking  aloud;  but  it  was  only  the  nurse, 
whom  the  old  man  would  only  allow  to  enter  the  room  at 
intervals;  and  setting  his  teeth  hard,  and  fighting  for 
calm,  Stephen  took  out  two  documents. 

One  was  a  parchment  of  goodly  proportions. 

Both  were  folded  and  endorsed  on  the  back — the  parch- 
ment with  the  inscription,  "Last  will  and  testament  of 
Ealph  Davenant,  Gent.,  Jan.  18 — ." 

With  eyes  that  almost  refused  to  do  their  task,  Stephen 
turned  the  other  paper  to  the  light,  and  read,  "Will,  July 
18 — ."  This  inscription  was  written  in  an  old  man's 
hand — the  parchment  was  engrossed  as  usual. 

Two  wills !  The  one — the  parchment,  however,  was 
useless;  the  other — the  sheet  of  foolscap — was  the  last. 

"Well,"  rose  the  voice  from  the  bed,  hollow  and  broken, 
"have  you  got  them?" 

Stephen  came  up  and  stood  behind  the  curtain,  and 
held  the  wills  up. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said.    "The  first  is — is  in  whose  favor?" 

The  old  man  struggled  for  breath.  White,  breathless 
himself  with  the  agony  of  anxiety  and  fear — for  any  mo- 
ment someone  might  enter  the  room — Stephen  stood  star- 
ing beside  him.  He  dared  not  undo  the  tapes  and  glance 
at  the  wills,  in  case  of  interruption — dared  not  conceal 


40  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OR. 

them,  for  Hudsley  might  appear  on  the  scene.  With  the 
wills  clasped  in  his  hand,  lie  stood  and  waited. 

The  faintness  passed — old  Ralph  regained  his  voice. 

"One  is  parchment — the  other  is  paper.  The  parch- 
ment one  you  drew  up:  you  know  its  contents — I  want 
it  destroyed,  or,  stay,  keep  it.  It  will  add  to  the  deceit- 
ful hound's  disappointment.  The  other — ah,  my  God — it 
is  too  late — Hudsley,  there  is  a  cruel  history  in  that 
paper.  Xo  hand  but  mine  could  pen  it.  But — but — I 
have  done  justice.  Too  late  ! — why  do  you  say — too  late  ? 
Why  do  you  mock  a  dying  man  ?  Mind,  Hudsley,  I  trust 
to  you.  It  is  a  sound  will,  made  in  sound  body — and — 
mind.  Dfon't  leave  that  hypocritical  hound  a  chance  of 
setting  it  aside.  I  trust  to  you.  Stop,  better  burn  the 
first  will ;  burn  it  here  now — now,"  and  in  his  excitement 
he  actually  raised  his  head.  Eaised  it  to  let  it  drop  upon 
the  pillow  again  with  exhaustion. 

Stephen  stood  and  glared,  torn  this  way  and  that  by 
doubt  and  uncertainty. 

"Justice,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "The  first  will,  my 
will  leaves  all  to " 

"To  that  hound  Stephen !"  gasped  the  old  man.  "I  did 
it  in  a  weak  moment  and  repented  of  it.  Leaves  all  to 
him;  but  not  now." 

Stephen  hesitated  no  longer.  With  the  quick,  gliding 
movement  of  a  cat  he  reached  the  iron  safe,  replaced  the 
parchment  in  the  drawer  and  locked  the  outer  door,  and 
thrust  the  paper  will  into  his  pocket. 

Scarcely  had  he  done  so,  before  he  had  time  to  get  to 
his  place,  the  door  opened  and  Hudsley,  the  lawyer,  en- 
tered. 

He  was  an  old  man,  as  thin  and  bent  as  a  withy  branch, 
with  a  face  seamed  and  wrinkled,  like  his  familiar  parch- 
ment, with  the  like  spots ;  his  dark,  keen  gray  eyes,  which 
looked  out  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  like  stars  in 
a  cloudy  sky. 

As  he  entered,  Stephen  came  forward,  his  back  to  the 
light,  his  face  in  the  shadow,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Hudsley  took  it,  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  dropped  it 
with  a  little,  irritable  shudder — the  slim,  white  hand  was 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE  ?  4 1 

as  cold  as  ice- — and,  turning  to  the  bod,  looked  a.u\iuusi\ 
at  the  dying  man. 

"Great  heaven!"  he  said,  "is  he  dead?' 

A  savage  hope  shot  up  in  Stephen's  heart,  but  he  looked 
and  shook  his  head. 

"No.  You  have  been  a  long  time  coming,  Mr.  Huds- 
ley." 

"I  have,  sir,  thanks  to  your  man's  stupidity,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  an  angry  whisper.  "He  came  for  me  in  a  con- 
founded dogcart !" 

"The  quickest  vehicle  to  get  ready,"  murmured  Stephen. 
"I  told  him  to  take  the  first  that  came  to  hand." 

"And  the  result,"  said  the  lawyer  impatiently.  "The 
result  is  that  we  lost  half  an  hour  on  the  road !  Does 
your  man  drink,  Mr.  Stephen  ?" 

"Drink!  Slummers  drink!"  murmured  Stephen.  "A 
most  stead}',  respectable — I  may  say  conscientious — man." 

"He  may  be  conscientious,  but  he's  a  very  bad  driver. 
I  never  saw  such  a  clumsy  fellow.  He  drove  into  a  ditch 
half  a  mile  after  we  had  started." 

"Dear,  dear,"  murmured  Stephen  regretfully.  "Poor 
Slummers.  It  is  not  his  fault.  He  is  a  worthy  fellow, 
but  too  sympathetic,  and  my  uncle's  illness  quite  upset 
him " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  Mr.  Hudsley,  holding  up  his 
finger  and  bending  down. 

"Squire,  do  you  know  me?    I  am  Hudsley." 

The  dying  man  moved  his  hand  faintly  in  assent. 

"Yes.    Have  you  done  as  I  told  you  ?" 

"You  have  told  me  nothing  yet." 

"The  safe! — the  key! — the  pillow !'"  -said  the  Squire. 

Hudsley  caught  his  meaning  and  felt  under  the  pillow, 
and  Stephen,  as  if  to  assist,  thrust  his  hand  under,  and 
withdrew  it  with  the  key  in  his  fingers. 

"Why — again?"  came  the  voice,  broken  and  impatient. 
"You  have  done  it !  you  have  burnt  the  first." 

"What  is  he  saying?"  he  asked. 

"You  have  burned  it ;  show  me  the  other — the  last ;  let 
me — touch  it." 

Hudsley  opened  the  safe  and  took  the  first  will  from 
the  drawer. 


42  0XLY  ©XE  LOVE :  OR, 

"Two,  did  IIP  say?"  lio  muttered;  "there  is  only  one 
here — the  will  ;"  and  he  came  to  the  hod  with  it. 

"There  is  only  one  will  here,  of  course,  squire,"  he 
said,  bending  down  and  speaking  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"Yes — yon,  yon  have — burned  the  other.  Speak.  T 
cannot  see,  but  I  can  hear  yon." 

"I  have  burned  none,"  said  Hndsley.  "Have  only  just 
come — there  is  only  one  will  here." 

"Which?"  gasped  the  dying  man. 

"The  will  of  January — Mr.  Stephen " 

Before  they  conld  finish,  they  saw,  with  horror,  the 
dying  man  half  raise  himself,  his  face  livid,  his  hands 
wildly  clutching  the  air,  his  eyes,  by  accident,  turned 
toward  Stephen. 

"You — you  thief!"  he  gasped.  "Give  it  to  rale! — give 
— give — oh,  God !  Too  late  ? — too  la " 

It  was  too  late.  Before  the  nurse  and  Jack  could  rush 
into  the  room,  horrified  by  the  shriek  which  rang  from 
Stephen's  white  lips,  old  Ralph  Davenant  had  fallen  back 
dead! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Stephen  Davenant  passed 
down  the  stairs  on  tiptoe,  though  the  tramp  of  an  armed 
host  could  not  disturb  old  Ralph  Davenant  now — passed 
down  with  his  hand  pressed  against  his  breast  pocket,  in 
which  lay  the  stolen  will.  Had  the  sheet  of  blue  foolscap 
been  composed  of  red-hot  iron  instead  of  paper,  Stephen 
could  not  have  felt  its  presence  more  distinctly  and  un- 
comfortably; it  seemed  to  burn  right  through  his  clothes 
and  scorch  his  heart;  he  could  almost  fancy,  in  his  over- 
strained state,  that  it  could  be  seen  through  his  coat. 

He  paused  a  moment  outside  the  library  door,  one  white 
hand  fingering  his  pale  lips,  the  other  vainly  striving  to 
keep  away  from  his  breast  pocket,  and  listened  to  the 
tramp,  tramp  of  Jack  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room.  Any  other  face  would  have  been  more  endurable 
than  Jack's,  with  its  fiercely  frank  gaze  and  outspoken 
contempt. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEllt?  13 

At  last  he  opened  the  door  and  entered,  his  handker- 
chief in  his  hand.  Jack  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"1  have  been  waiting  for  you/'  he  said. 

"My  poor  uncle!" 

Jack  looked  at  him  with  keen  scrutiny,  mingled  with 
unconcealed  scorn. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,  in  case  you  wished  to 
say  anything  before  I  went." 

"What?"  murmured  Stephen,  with  admirably  feigned 
surprise  and  regret.  "You  will  not  go,  my  dear  Jack  !  not 
to-night." 

"Yes,  to-night,"  said  Jack  quietly.  "I  couldn't  stop  in 
the  house — I  shall  go  to  the  inn." 

"But " 

"No,  thanks !"  said  Jack,  cutting  him  short. 

"Oh,  do  not  thank  me,"  murmured  Stephen,  meekly. 
"I  may  have  no  right  to  offer  you  hospitality,  the  house 
may  be  yours." 

"Well,  I  think  you  could  give  a  pretty  good  guess  on 
that  point,"  said  Jack,  bluntly ;  "but  let  that  pass.  I  am 
going  to  the  'Bush.'  If  you  or  Mr.  Hudsley  want  me — 
where  is  Hudsley?"  he  broke  off  to  inquire. 

"Mr.  Hudsley  is  up-stairs  sealing  up  the  safe  and 
things,"  said  Stephen  humbly.  "He  wished  me  to  assist 
him,  but  T  had  rather  that  he  should  do  it  alone — per- 
haps yon  yould  go  through  the  house  with  him?" 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"As  you  please,"  mlurmured  Stephen,  with  a  resigned 
sigh.  "Mr.  Hudsley  is  quite  sufficient;  he  knows  where 
everything  of  importance  is  kept.  You  will  have  some  re- 
freshments after  your  journey,  my  dear  Jack?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Jack;  "I  want  nothing — I  couldn't 
eat  anything.  I'll  go  now." 

"Are  you  going,  Mr.  Newcombe  ?"  said  Mr.  Hudsley,  en- 
tering and  looking  from  one  to  the  other  keenly. 

"I  am  going  to  the  'Bush ;'  I  shall  stay  there  in  case  I 
;im  wanted." 

"The  funeral  had  better  be  fixed  for  Saturday.  Yon 
and  Mr.  Stephen  will  be  the  chief  mourners."  Then  he 
turned  to  Stephen.  "I  have  scaled  up  most  of  the  things. 
Is  there  anything  you  can  suggest  ?" 


44  ONLY   OXK  LOVK:  <>K. 

''You  know  all  ihat  is  required :  we  leave  everything 
to  you,  Mr.  Ilud.-ley.  J  think  I  may  speak  for  my  cousin 
— may  1  not.  Jack?''' 

Jack  did  not  reply,  bur  put  on  his  gloves. 

"I  will  go  now/7  he  said.     "Good-night,  Mr.  Hudsley." 

The  old  lawyer  looked  at  him  keenly  as  he  took  kis  hand. 

"I  shall  find  you  at  the  'Bush?' "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Jack,  and  was  leaving  the  room  when 
Stephen  rose  and  followed  him. 

"Good-night,  my  dear  Jack,'"'  he  said.  "WiM  you  not 
shake  hands  on — on  such  an  occasion  ?" 

Jack  strode  to  the  door  and  opened  it  without  reply, 
then  turned  and,  as  if  with  an  effort,  took  the  hand  which 
Stephen  had  kept  extended. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  dropping  the  cold  fingers,  and 
strode  out. 

Stephen  looked  after  him  a  moment  with  his  meek, 
long-suffering  expression  of  face  changed  into  a  ma- 
lignant smile  of  triumph,  and  his  hand  went  up  to  his 
breast  pocket. 

"Good-night,  beggar!"  he  murmured,  and  closed  i la- 
door. 

Mr.  Hudsley  was  still  standing  by  the  library-table,  toy- 
ing absently  with  the  keys,  a  thoughtful  frown  on  his 
brow,  which  did  not  grow  any  lighter  as  Stephe^  entered, 
making  great  play  with  the  pocket-handkerchit 

"I  think  I  also  may  go  now,  Mr.  Stephen,"  he  said. 
'•Xothing  more  can  be  done  to-night.  I  will  he  here  in 
the  morning  with  my  clerk." 

"I  suppose  nothing  more  can  be  done.  You  have- 
sealed  up  all  papers  and  jewels?  I  am  particularly 
anxious  that  nothing  shall  be  left  informal." 

"I  don't  think  there  is  anything  unsealed  that  should 
have  been." 

"A  very  strange  scene,  the  final  one,  Mr.  Stephen." 

"Awful,  awful,  Mr.  Hudsley.  My  poor  uncle  seemed 
quite  delirious  at  the  last." 

"Hem!"  grunted  the  old  lawyer,  pulling  his  hat  to  his 
lips  and  looking  over  it  at  the  white,  smooth  face.  "Yon 
think  he  was  delirious — 

"Don't  you,  Mr.  Hudsley?     Do  you  think  that  he  was 


WHO  WAS  THK  limit?  -10 

conscious  of  what  ho  was  saying?  You  huvr  hrvn  hi< 
legal  adviser  and  confidant  for  years;  yon  would  knou 
whether  there  was  any  meaning  in  his  wild  and  iiK.-oherent 
statement  about  the  will.  As  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  my 
poor  uncle  never  broached  the  subject  of  his  intentions 
to  me." 

"I  know  of  only  one  will — that  of  last  year.  That  will 
I  executed  for  him;  it  is  the  will  locked  up  in  the  safe 
up-stairs.  I  have  a  copy  at  the  office,"  he  added,  dryly. 

"You — you  don't  think  there  is  any  other — any  other 
later  will?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"I  didn't  think  so  until  an  hour  ago.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  think  so  now.  Do  you?" 

"No/'  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "My  uncle  was  not 
the  man  to  draw  up  a  will  with  his  own  hand,  and  his 
confidence,  and  I  may  say  affection  for  you,  were  so  great 
that  he  would  not  have  gone  to  any  other  legal  adviser 
to  do  it  for  him.  No,  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  other 
will ;  of  course,  I  do  not  know  the  contents  of  the  will  in 
the  safe." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Mr.  Hudsley,  in  a  tone  so  dry 
thai  it  seemed  to  rasp  his  throat. 

"And  yet  I  cannot  understand  mfy  poor  uncle's  out- 
break, except  by  attributing  it  to  delirium." 

"Hem?"  said  Mr.  Hudsley.  "Well,  in  case  there  should 
have  been  any  meaning  and  significance  in  it,  my  clerk 
and  I  will  make  a  careful  search  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  Murmured  Stephen,  "and  I  devoutly  trust  that 
should  a  feter  will  be  in  existence,  you  may  find  it." 

"I  hope  we  may,"  said  Mr.  Hudsley.    "Good-night  •!" 

Stephen  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  as  he  had  ac- 
companied the  doctor  and  Jack,  and  saw  him  into  the 
brougham,  and  then  turned  back  into  the  house  with  a 
look  of  release,  which,  however,  gradually  changed  to  enc 
of  lurking  fear  and  indefinite  dread. 

"Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all." 

It  makes  a  worse  coward  of  Stephen  Davenant  than  he 
was  natrually.  As  he  stood  in  the  deserted  hall,  and 
looked  round,  at  its  vast  dimness,  at  the  carved  gallery 
and  staircase,  somber  and  dull  for  want  of  varnish,  and 
listened'  to  the  faint,  ghostly  noises  made  by  the  AWC- 


<JG  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OR, 

stricken  servants  moving  to  and  fro  overhead,  a  chill  crept 
over  lii in,  and  he  wished  that  he  had  kept  one  of  them, 
even  Jack,  to  hear  him  company. 

With  fearful  gaze  he  peered  into  the  darkness,  scarcely 
daring  to  cross  the  hall  and  enter  the  lihrary.  For  all 
the  stillness,  he  fancied  he  could  hear  that  last  shriek  of 
the  dying  man  ringing  through  the  house;  for  all  the 
darkness,  the  slim,  hent  figure  seemed  to  he  moving  to  and 
fro,  the  dark  piercing  eyes  turned  upon  him  with  furious 
accusation.  Even  when  he  had  summoned  up  courage 
to  enter  the  library,  locking  the  door  after  him,  the  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  him,  and  with  a  shudder  that  shook  him 
from  head  to  foot  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
drank  it  down. 

The  Spirit  of  Evil  certainly  invented  brandy  for  cow- 
ards. 

Stephen  set  down  the  empty  glass  and  looked  round 
the  room — another  man. 

He  even  smiled  in  a  ghostly  kind  of  fashion  as  he  took 
the  will  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it. 

"Poor  Jack !"  he  murmured,  with  a  sardonic  display  of 
the  white  teeth.  "This  no  doubt  makes  you  master  of 
Hurst  Leigh ;  but  Providence  has  decreed  that  the  spend- 
thrift shall  be  disappointed.  Yes,  I  am  the  humble 
instrument  chosen.  I  am " 

He  stopped  suddenly  with  a  start,  for  he  had  been  read- 
ing as  he  soliloquized,  and  he  had  come  upon  words  that 
struck  him  to  the  very  heart's  core. 

Was  he  dreaming,  or  had  his  senses  taken  leave  of  him? 

With  beating  heart  and  white,  parched  lips  he  stared  at 
the  paper  until  the  lines  of  crabbed  handwriting  danced 
before  his  astounded  eyes. 

If  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,  old  Ralph  Davenant's  will 
was  wit  itself.  It  consisted  of  five  paragraphs. 

The  first  was  merely  the  usual  preamble  declaring  the 
testator  to  be  of  sound  mind. 

The  second  ran  thus: 

"To  John  Newcombe  I  will  and  bequeath  the  sum  of 
fifty  thousand  pounds,  the  said  sum  to  be  realized  by  the 
sale  or  transfer  of  bonds  and  stocks,  at  the  discretion  of 
James  Hudsley." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  4» 

Enough  in  this  to  move  Stephen,  but  it  paled  into  in- 
significance before  what  followed: 

"To  my  nephew,  Stephen  Davenant,  1  will  and  bequeall. 
the  set  of  Black's  sermons  in  twenty-nine  volumes,  stand- 
ing on  .the  second  shelf  in  the  library,  having  remarked 
the  affection  which  the  said  Stephen  Davenant  bore  the 
said  volumes,  and  accepting  his  repeated  assertions  that 
his  attendance  upon  me  was  wholly  disinterested." 

An  ugly  flash  and  an  evil  glitter  swept  over  Stephen's 
white  face  and  eyes,  and  his  teeth  ground  together  ma- 
liciously. 

"To  each  and  every  one  of  my  servants  I  bequeath  the 
sum  of  one  hundred  pounds,  such  sum  to  be  forfeited  by 
each  and  every  one  who  assumes  mourning  for  my  death, 
which  each  and  every  one  has  anxiously  looked  forward  to. 

"And  lastly,  I  will  and  bequeath  the  remainder  of  my 
property  of  whatsoever  kind,  be  it  money,  houses,  lands, 
or  property  of  any  description,  to  my  only  daughter  and 
child,  Eunice  Davenant,  the  same  to  be  held  in  trust  for 
her  sole  use  and  benefit  by  James  Hudsley. 

"And  I  hereby  inform  him,  and  the  world  at  large,  that 
the  said  Eunice  Davenant  is  the  only  issue  of  my  marriage 
with  Caroline  Hatfield;  that  the  said  marriage  was  cele- 
brated in  secret  at  the  Church  of  Armfield,  in  Sussex,  in 
June,  18 — .  And  that  the  said  Eunice  Davenant,  my 
daughter,  is  in  the  keeping  of  one  Gideon  Rolfe,  wood- 
man, of  Warden  Forest,  who  has  reared  her  as  his  own 
child,  and  who  is  unacquainted  with  the  facts  of  my 
secret  marriage,  and  I  decree  and  appoint  James  Hudsley 
sole  guardian,  trustee,  and  ward  of  the  aforesaid  Eunice 
Davenant,  and  at  her  hands  I  crave  forgiveness  for  my 
neglect  of  her  mother  and  herself. 

"(Signed)  RALPH  DAVENANT, 

"Hurst  Leigh. 
"Witness — George  Goodman, 

"Coachman,  Hurst  Leigh. 
"Martha  Goodman, 

"Cook,  Hurst  Leigh." 

White,  breathless,  Stephen  held  the  paper  in  his  clinched 
hands  and  stared  at  the  astounding  contents. 


48  ONLY  ONE  LOVE:  OK, 

Eunke  Davenant  the  squire's  daughter. 

His  overstrained  brain  refused  to  realize  it. 

Old  Kalph  Davenant  married!  Married!  It  was  im- 
possible. 

Oh,  yes,  that  was  it.  A  smile,  a  ghastly  smile  shone 
on  his  face.  It  was  a  joke — a  vile,  malicious  joke,"  worthy 
of  the  crabbed,  misanthropical  old  man !  A  villainous 
joke,  set  down  just  to  bring  about  litigation,  and  create 
trouble  and  confusion  between  the  two  young  men,  himself 
and  Jack  Newcombe.  And  yet — and  the  smile  died  away 
and  left  his  face  fearful  and  haggard — and  yet  that  awful 
fury  of  the  dying  man  when  he  knew  that  the  will  had 
been  stolen. 

No,  it  was  no  jest.  The  marriage  had  taken  place ;  there 
was  a  daughter,  and  she  was  the  heiress  of  all  that  im- 
mense, untold  wealth,  except  the  fifty  thousand  pounds 
left  to  Jack  Newcombe,  while  he— he,  Stephen  Davenant, 
the  next  of  kin,  the  man  who  had  been  working,  lying, 
toadying  for  the  money,  was  left  with  a  set  of  musty  ser- 
mons. 

Rage  rilled  his  heart;  stifling,  choking  with  fury,  the 
disappointed  schemer  struck  the  senseless  paper  with  his" 
clinched  fist,  and  ground  his  teeth  at  it;  then,  suddenly, 
as  if  by  a  swift  inspiration,  he  remembered  that  this  ac- 
cursed will,  which  would  reduce .  him  to  beggary,  and 
leave  an  unknown  girl  and  his  hated  cousia  wealthy, 
was  in  his  hands;  that  he  and  he  only  knew  of  its  exist- 
ence. With  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  he  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  held  the  paper  at  arm's  length  and  laughed 
softly  at  it,  as  if  it  were  endued  with  sense,  and  could 
appreciate  its  helplessness. 

Then  he  drew  the  candle  near,  folded  the  paper  into  a 
third  of  its  size,  held  it  to  the  candle — and  drew  it  back 
again,  overcome  by  that  fascination  which  almost  in- 
variably exercises  itself  on  such  occasions — tfiat  peculiar 
reluctance  to  destroy  the  thing  whose  existence  can  destroy 
the  possessor. 

The  flame  flickered  and  licked  the  frail  paper:  the 
smoke  curled  round  its  edge:  and  yet — and  yet  lie  could 
not  destroy  it. 

Instead,,  he  sat  down,  and  with  clinched  teeth  unfolded 


WSQ  WAS  THE  HEIR?  49 

the  will  and  read  it^-read  it  again  and  again,  until  every 
word  was  burned  and  seared  into  his  brain. 

"Eunice  Davenant!  Eunice  Davenant !  Curse  her!'' 
he  groaned  out. 

But  even  as  the  words  left  his  lips  a  sound  rose,  the  un- 
mistakable tap — tap  of  something — some  finger  striking 
the  window-pane. 

Biting  his  bloodless  lips  to  prevent  himself  calling  out 
in  his  ecstasy  of  fear,  he  thrust  the  will  into  his  pocket, 
caught  up  the  candle,  swept  the  curtains  aside,  and  started 
back. 

The  ligfet  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  a  youag  girl. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

The  face  at  the  window  was  that  of  a  young  girl  of 
about  two-and-twenty. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  Stepfcea  Davenant 
was  pleased  or  annoyed  by  this  apparition.  That  he  was 
surprised  there  could  be  no  doubt,  for  he  almost  dropped 
the  candle  in  his  astonishment,  and  fumbled  at  the  lock 
of  the  window  for  some  moments  before  he  could  open  it. 

"Laura!"  he  exclaimed,  "can  it  be  you?  Great  Heav- 
ens !  Impossible !" 

With  a  little  gasp  of  relief  and  suppressed  excitement, 
the  girl  stepped  into  the  room,  and  leaned  upon  his  arm, 
panting  with  a  commingling  of  weariness  and  fear. 

"My  dear  Laura,"  he  said,  still  holding  the  candle, 
"how  did  you  come  here?  Why " 

"Oh,  Stephen,  is  it  really  you?  I  was  afraid  that  I 
had  made  some  mistake — that  I  had  come  all  this  way " 

"You  do  not  mean  to  say  you  have  come  aft  the  way 
from  London  alone — alone!" 

"Yes,  I  have  come  all  the  way  from  Loactoa.  Do  not 
be  angry  with  me,  Stephen.  I — I  could  not  wait  any 
longer.  It  seemed  so  long !  Why  did  you  leave  me  with- 
out a  word?  I  did  not  know  whether  you  were  alive  or 
dead.  Three  weeks — think,  three  weeks!  How  could 
you  do  itP' 

"Hush!  hush!  Do  not  speak  so  loud/'  he  whispered. 
"Did  attysme  see  you  come  in?" 


50  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

"No  one.  I  have  been  waiting  in  the  shrubs  for — oh, 
hours !  I  saw  the  visitors  go  away — an  old  gentleman 
and  a  young  one — and  I  saw  your  shadow  behind  the 
blind,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  window.  "I  have  been 
outside  waiting,  and  dreading  to  knock  in  case  you  should 
not  be  alone." 

"You — you  saw  my  shadow?"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy 
smile.  "Did  you  see — I  mean,  what  was  I  doing?" 

"I  did  not  see  distinctly;  I  was  listening  for  voices. 
Oh,  Stephen,  I  am  so  weary !" 

He  drew  a  chair  for  her,  and,  motioning  her  to  sit, 
mixed  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  and  stood  over  her 
holding  her  wrist  and  looking  down  at  her  with  an  uneasy 
smile. 

"Now,"  he  said,  taking  the  glass  from  her,  "tell  me  all 
about  it — how  you  came,  and  why?  Speak  in  a  whisper." 

"You  don't  need  to  ask  me  why,  Stephen,"  she  said, 
leaning  forward  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  her 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  his  half-hidden  ones.  "Why  did  you 
leave  me  so  long  without  a  word?" 

"I  will  tell  you  directly,"  he  answered.  "Tell  me  how 
you  came — alone !  Great  Heaven !" 

"Alone,  yes;  why  not?  I  was  not  afraid.  I  came  by 
the  train." 

"But — but "  he  said,  with  a  little  flush  and  a  shift- 
ing glance,  "how  did  you  know  where  I  was?" 

"You  would  never  guess !  You  do  not  deserve  that  I 
should  tell  you.  Well,  I  followed  Slummers!" 

"Followed  v  Slummers !"  he  echoed,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"Yes,  I  met  him  in  the  street;  you  are  going  to  ask 
me  why  I  did  not  ask  him  where  you  were,"  she  broke  off 
with  a  smile  and  a  shake  of  her  head. 

"Because  I  knew  he  would  not  tell  me.  Stephen,  I  do 
not  like  that  man,  and  he  does  not  like  me.  Why  do  you 
trust  him  so?" 

"You  followed  Slummers — well?" 

"To  the  station.  I  was  behind  him  when  he  took  his 
ticket,  and  I  took  one  for  the  same  place.  I  was  quite 
close  behind  him,  but  he  did  not  see  me.  I  got  into  the 
train  at  the  last  moment,  and  I  followed  him  from  the 
station  here." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  51 

"My  dear  Laura,"  he  murmured,  soothingly;  "how 
rash,  how  thoughtless !" 

"Was  it?"  she  said.  "Perhaps  it  was.  I  did  not  stop 
to  think." 

"But  now — now  what  are  you  to  do  ?" 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Stephen,  now  I  am  here. 
You  must  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do."  Then  her  eyes  wan- 
dered round  the  house.  "What  a  large  house  !  Is  it  your?, 
Stephen  ?" 

"Eh?"  he  said,  starting  slightly.  "I— I— don't  know— I 
mean  it  was  my  uncle's.  I  was  going  to  write  to-night 
and  tell  you  where  I  was,  and  why  I  did  not  write  be- 
fore." 

"Why  didn't  you?"  she  said,  with  gentle  reproach. 

"Because,"  he  replied,  "I  could  not — it  was  impossible. 
I  could  not  leave  the  house,  and  could  not  trust  the  letter 
to  a  servant.  My  uncle  has  been  very  ill:  he — he — lies 
dead  up-stairs." 

"Up-stairs !     Oh,  Stephen !" 

"You  see,"  he  exclaimed  reproachfully,  "that  I  have  a 
good  excuse,  that  I  have  not  desert — left  you  without  a 
word  for  no  cause." 

"Forgive  me,  Stephen,  dear!"  she  murmured,  peni- 
tently. "Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  Say  you  are  glad 
to  see  me  now  I  have  come." 

"Of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  but  I  am  not  glad  you 
have  come,  my  dear  Laura.  What  am)  I  to  do  with  you? 
I  am  not  alone  here,  you  know.  The  house  is  full  of 
servants;  any  moment  someone  may  come  in.  Think  of 
the  awkward  position  in  which  your  precipitancy  has 
placed  me — has  placed  both  of  us !" 

"I  never  thought  of  that — I  did  not  know.  Why  did 
you  not  tell  me  you  were  with  your  uncle  ?  Oh,  Stephen, 
why  have  you  hidden  things  from  me?" 

"Hidden  things?"  he  echoed,  with  ill-concealed  im- 
patience. "I  did  not  think  that  it  was  worth  telling. 
I  did  not  know  that  I  was  coming — I  was  fetched  sud- 
denly. Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  told  Slumoners 
to  call  and  tell  you." 

"And  he  forgot  it — on  purpose.    I  hate  Slummers !" 


52  ONLY  ONE  LOVE :  OK, 

"Poor  Slummers !"  murmured  Stephen.  "Xever  mine! 
him,  however.  We  must  think  now  of  what  is  to  be  done 
with  you.  You — you  cannot  stay  here.'' 

"Can  I  not  ?  Xo,  I  suppose  not.  I  can  go  back,"  she 
added,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  coaxingly,  "I  am  afraid  you 
must  go  back.  There  is  an  up-train — the  last — in  half  an 
hour." 

The  girl  leaned  back  and  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said,  grasping  her  arm;  "but 
what  can  I  do?  You  cannot  stay  here.  That's  impos- 
sible. There  is  only  one  inn  in  the  place,  and  your  appear- 
ance there  would  arouse  curiosity,  and — oh,  that,  too,  is 
quite  impossible  !  My  poor  Laura,  why  did  you  eome  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  "it  was  foolish  to  comie.  You 
are  not  glad  to  see  me,  Stephen." 

He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her,  but  she  put  him  from 
her  with  a  touch  of  her  hand,  and  rose  wearily. 

"I  will  go,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  was  wrong  to  come. 
Tell  me  the  way,"  and  she  drew  her  jacket  close. 

"Don't  look  so  grieved,  dear,"  he  murmured.  "What 
am  I  to  do?  If  there  was  any  place — but  there  is  not. 
See,  I  will  come  with  you  to  the  station.  We  shall  have 
to  walk,  I  am  afraid;  I  dare  not  order  a  carriage.  My 
poor  child,  if  you  had  only  foreseen  these  difficulties." 

"Do  not  say  any  more,"  she  interrupted  coldly.  "I  am 
quite  convinced  of  my  folly  and  am  ready  to  go." 

"Sit  down  and  wait  while  I  get  my  hat.  We  must 
get  away  unobserved.  Suspicious  eyes  are  watching  my 
every  movement  to-night.  I  can't  tell  you  all,  but  I  will 
soon.  Sit  down,  my  darling;  I  will  not  be  gone  a  mo- 
ment. If  anyone  comes  to  the  door,  step  through  the 
window  and  conceal  yourself." 

Unlocking  the  door  noiselessly  he  went  out,  turning 
the  key  after  him. 

Barely  a  minute  elapsed  before  he  was  in  the  room 
again. 

Warm  though  the  night  was  he  put  on  an  overcoat 
and  turned  up  the  collar  so  that  it  hid  the  lower  part 
of  his  face. 

Locking  the  door  after  him,  he  came  up  to  the  table, 


WHO  WAS  THE  HBIE?  53 

poured  out  another  glass  of  brandy-and- water,  and  got 
some  biscuits. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  must  eat  some  of  these.  Put 
some  in  your  pocket.  And  you  must  drink  this,  my  poor 
darling,  or  you  will  be  exhausted." 

She  put  back  the  glass  and  plate  from  her  with  a 
gesture  of  denial. 

"I  could  not  eat,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  want  anything, 
and  I  shall  not  be  exhausted.  Let  us  go;  this  house 
makes  me  shudder,"  and  she  moved  to  the  window  and 
passed  out. 

"Laura,  say  dear  Laura,"  murmured  Stephen,  in  his 
most  dulcet  tones,  "why  are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"I  am  not  angry  with  you,"  she  said,  and  the  voice, 
cold  and  constrained,  did  not  seem  the  same  as  that  in 
which  she  had  greeted  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  "I 
am  angry  with  myself;  I  am  filled  with  self-scorn." 

"My  dear  Laura,"  he  began,  soothingly,  but  she  inter- 
rupted him  with  a  gesture. 

"You  a<re  quite  right;  I  was  wrong  to  eome.  You 
have  not  said  so  in  so  many  words,  but  your  face,  your 
eyes,  your  very  smile  have  told  me  so  plainly." 

"What  bare  I  said?" 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  without  hesitation,  and  with 
the  same  air  of  cold  conviction.  "If  you  had  said  angry 
words,  had  been  harsh  and  annoyed  openly,  and  yet  been 
glad  to  see  me,  I  could  have  forgiven  myself,  but  you 
were  not  glad  to  see  me.  If  I  had  been  in  your  place — 
but  I  am  a  woman.  Don't  say  any  more.  Is  the  station 
near  ?" 

"My  dear  Laura,"  murmured  Stephen  for  the  third 
time,  and  now  more  softly  than  ever,  "more  must  be  said. 
I  am  aaxious,  naturally  anxious,  to  learn  whether  this — 
this  suddeaa  journey  can  be  concealed." 

It  w,as  quite  true,  he  was  anxious,  very  aaxions — om 
his  own  accoiuit. 


54  0-XLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OH, 

CHAPTER   IX. 

"Come,"  he  said;  "it  is  all  right,  then.  Do  not  take 
the  matter  so  seriously,  my  darling  Laura.  The  worst 
part  of  it  is  that  you  should  have  made  such  a  journey 
alone,  and  have  to  go  back  alone,  and  at  night !  That  is 
what  grieves  me.  If  I  could  but  go  with  you — and  yet 
that  would  scarcely  be  wise — but  it  is  impossible  under 
the  circumstances.  Come,  give  me  your  arm,  my  dear 
Laura." 

A  little  shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  she  caught 
her  breath  with  a  stifled  sob. 

"Come,  come,  my  darling,"  he  murmured;  "don't  look 
back,  look  forward.  In  an  hour  or  two  you  will  be  home." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  afraid?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice 
trembled,  but  not  with  fear.  "No,  I  am  looking  back. 
Oh,  Stephen,  do  you  remember  when  we  met  first?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Stephen,  soothingly,  and  with  an 
anxious,  sidelong  look  about — to  be  seen  promenading  the 
high  road  with  a  young  woman  on  his  arm  on  the  night 
of  his  uncle's  death  would  be  the  ruin  of  his  carefully  built- 
up  reputation.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured.  "Shall  I  ever 
forget?  How  fortunate  you  lost  your  way,  Laura,  and 
that  you  should  have  come  up  to  m;e  to  ask  it,  and  that 
I  should  have  been  going  in  that  direction.  And  yet  the 
thoughtless  speak  of  chance !" 

And  he  cast  up  his  eyes  with  unctuous  solemnity, 
though  there  was  no  one  in  the  dark  road  to  be  impressed 
by  it. 

"Chance,"  said  the  girl,  sadly — "an  evil  or  a  good 
chance  for  me — which?  Stephen,  I  sometimes  wish  that 
we  had  never  met — that  I  had  not  crossed  your  path,  and 
so  have  left  the  old  life,  with  its  dull,  quiet  and  sober 
grayness;  but  the  die  was  cast  that  afternoon.  I  went 
back  to  the  quiet  home,  to  the  old  man  who  had  been  my 
father,  mother  and  all  to  me,  and  life  was  changed." 

"Your  grandfather  has  no  suspicion  ?" 

"No,  he  trusts  me  entirely.  If  he  asks  a  question 
when  I  go  to  meet  you,  he  is  satisfied  when  I  tell  him 
that  I  ami  going  to  a  neighbor.  Stephen,  if  I  had  had  a 
mother,  do  you  think  I  should  have  deceived  her  also?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  55 

"Deceived?  Deceived  is  too  harsh  a  word,  my  dear 
Laura.  We  have  been  obliged,  for  various  reasons,  to  use 
some  reserve — let  us  say  candidly,  to  conceal  our  engage- 
ment. You  have  not  mentioned  my  name  to  anyone?" 
he  broke  off. 

"To  no  one,"  she  answered. 

"Such  concealment  was  necessary.  My  uncle  was  a 
man  of  rough  and  hasty  temper,  ill-judging  and  merci- 
less." 

"But,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  eagerness,  and  a  slight 
shudder,  "he — he  is  dead  now,  Stephen.  There  is  no 
need  for  further  concealment." 

"Softly,  softly,  dear  Laura.  We  must  be  patient — 
must  keep  our  little  secret  a  little  while  longer.  I  can 
trust  my  darling  to  confide  in  me — yes,  yes,  I  know 
that " 

"Stephen,  to-night  for  the  first  time — why,  I  know 
not — I  have  doubted — no,  not  doubted,  for  I  have  fought 
hard  against  the  suspicion  that  I  was  wrong  to  trust 
you." 

"My  dearest !"  he  murmured  reproachfully. 

"You  were  wrong  to  leave  me  for  so  long  without  a  word 
— you  put  my  love  to  too  severe  a  test.  I — I  cannot  say 
whether  it  has  stood  it  or  not.  To-night  I  am  full  of 
doubi.  Stephen — look  at  me!" 

He  turned  his  face  and  looked  down.  He  had  not  far 
to  look,  for  she  was  tall,  and  in  the  moment  of  excitement 
had  drawn  herself  to  her  full  height.  The  moon,  sailing 
from  amongst  the  clouds,  shone  on  her  upturned  face; 
her  lips  were  set,  and  the  dark  eyes  gleamed  from  the 
white  face. 

"Look  at  me,  Stephen.  If — I  say  if — there  is  the 
faintest  idea  of  treachery  lurking  in  your  mind " 

"My  dearest " 

"Cast  it  out!  Here,  to-night,  I  warn  you  to  cast  it 
out!  Such  love  as  mine  is  like  a  two-edged  sword,  it 
cuts  both  ways,  for  love — or  hate !  Stephen,  I  have  loved, 
I  have  trusted  you — for  mine,  for  your  own  sake,  be  true 
to  me!" 

He  was  more  impressed  than  alarmed.  This  side  of 
her  character  had  been  presented  to  him  to-night  for  the 


56  ONLY  ONE  LOVE  :  OR, 

first  time.  Hitherto  the  beautiful  girl  had  been  all  smiles 
and  humble  devotion.  Was  she  bewitched,  or  had  he  been 
mjstaken  in  her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  moon,  but  suddenly 
his  face  looked  paler  than  ever,  and  the  white  eyelids 
drooped  until  they  hid  the  shifting  eyes,  as  he  put  his 
arm/  around  her. 

"My  dearest !  What  can  you  mean  ?  Deceive  you ! 
Treachery!  Can  you  deem  me — me — capable  of  such 
things.  My  dearest,  you  are  overtired !  And  you 
jacket  has  become  unbuttoned.  Listen,  that  is  the  railway 
bell.  Laura,  you  will  not  leave  me  with  such  words  on 
your  lips?" 

"Forgive  me,  Stephen." 

"I  have  done  so  already,  dearest,  and  now  we  must 
part !  It  is  very  hard — but — I  cannot  even  go  with  you  to 
the  platform.  Someone  might  see  us.  It  is  for  your  sake, 
darling." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh.  "Good-bye — • 
you  will  write  or  come  to  me — when  ?" 

"Soon,  in  a  day  or  two,"  he  said.  "Do  not  be  im- 
patient. There  is  much  to  be  done;  m[y  poor  uncle5s 
funeral,  you  know.  Good-bye.  See !  I  will  stay  here  and 
watch  the  train  off.  Good-bye,  dear,  dear  Laura !" 

She  put  her  arm  round  him  and  returned  his  kiss,  and 
glided  away,  but  at  the  turn  of  the  road  leading  to  the 
station  she  turned  and,  holding  up  her  hand,  sent  a  word 
back  to  him. 

It  was: 

"Kemember !" 

Stephen  waited  until  the  train  puffed  out  of  the  station, 
and  not  until  it  had  flashed  some  distance  did  the  set 
^smile  leave  his  face. 

.'    Then,  with  a  rather  puzzled  and  uneasy  expression,  he 
turned  and  walked  swiftly  back  to  the  house. 

His  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  the  sudden  appearance  of 
the  young  girl  coming  on  the  top  of  the  other  causes 
of  excitement  bewildered  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
need  of  all  his  accustomed  coolness.  The  sudden  peril 
and  danger  of  this  accursed  will  demanded  all  his  at- 
tention, and  yet  the  thought  of  the  girl  would  force  itself 
upon  him.  He  had  met  her,  as  she  had  said,  in  the 


WBO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  57 

streets,  and  had  commenced  an  acquaintance  which  hud 
resulted  in  an  engagement.  Alone  and  unprotected,  save 
for  an  old  grandfather,  and  innocent  of  the  world,  Laura 
Trehern  had  been,  as  it  were,  fascinated  by  the  smooth, 
soft-spoken  Stephen,  from  whose  ready  tongue  vows  of 
Jove  and  devotion  rolled  as  easily  as  the  scales  from  a 
serpent  in  springtime.  And  he,  for  his  part,  was  smitten 
by  the  dark  eyes  and  quick,  impulsive  way  of  the  warm- 
hearted girl. 

But  there  had  come  upon  him  of  late  a  suspicion  that 
in  binding  himself  to  marry  her  he  had  committed  a 
false  step;  to-night  the  suspicion  grew  into  something 
like  certainty. 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  had  almiost  frightened  him. 
Hitherto  the  dark  eyes  had  ever  turned  on  his  with 
softened  gaze  of  love  and  admiration;  to-night,  for  the 
first  time,  the  hot,  passionate  nature  had  revealed  itself. 

The  deep-toned  "Remember !"  which  came  floating  down 
the  lane  as  she  disappeared  rang  unpleasantly  in  his  ears. 
Had  he  been  a  true-hearted  man  the  girl's  spirit  would 
have  made  her  more  precious  in  his  eyes;  but,  coward- 
like,  he  felt  that  hers  was  a  stronger  nature  than  his, 
and  he  began  to  fear. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  as  he  unlocked  the  library  window, 
and  sank  into  a  chair.  "It  was  a  weak  stroke,  a  weak 
stroke !  But  I  can't  think  of  what  is  to  be  done  now,  not 
now!" 

No,  for  to-night  all  his  attention  must  be  concentrated 
on  the  will. 

Wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow,  he  lit  another 
candle.  This  time  nothing  should  prevent  him  from  de- 
stroying the  accursed  thing  which  stood  between  him  and 
wealth ;  he  would  burn  it  at  once — at  once.  With  feverish 
eagerness  he  thrust  his  hand  in  his  coat,  then  staggered 
and  fell  back  white  as  death. 

The  pocket  was  empty.    The  will  was  not  there. 

"I — I  am  a  fool !"  he  muttered,  with  a  smile.  "I  put 
it  in  the  other  coat/'  and  he  snatched  up  the  overcoat, 
but  a  glance,  a  touch  showed  him  that  it  was  not  there 
either. 

Wildly,  madly  he  searched  each  pocket  in  vain,  went  on 


58  OXLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

his  knees  and  felt,  as  if  he  could  not  trust  his  sight  alone, 
every  inch  of  the  carpet ;  turned  up  the  hearth-rug,  al- 
most tore  up  the  carpet  itself,  shook  the  curtains,  and 
still  hunted  and  searched  long  after  the  conviction  had 
forced  itself  upon  his  mind  that  in  no  part  of  the  room 
could  the  thing  he  hidden. 

Then  he  paused,  pressing  his  hand  to  his  brow  and 
biting  his  livid  lips.  Let  him  think — think — think  ! 
Where  could  it  be?  He  had  not  dropped  it  on  the  stairs 
or  in  any  other  part  of  the  house,  for  he  remembered,  he 
could  swear,  that  he  had  felt  the  thing  as  he  stood  in  the 
study  buttoning  up  his  overcoat.  If  not  in  the  house, 
where  then? 

Throwing  aside  all  caution  in  his  excitement,  he  un- 
fastened the  window,  and,  candle  in  hand,  examined  the 
grand  terrace,  traced  every  step  which  he  had  taken 
across  the  lawn — and  all  to  no  purpose. 

"It  is  lying  in  the  road,"  he  muttered,  the  sweat  drop- 
ping from  his  face.  "Heaven!  lying  glaring  there,  for 
any  country  clown  to  pick  up  and  ruin  me.  I  must — I 
will  find  it!  Brandy — I  must  have  some  brandy — this — 
this  is  maddening  me !" 

And  indeed  he  seemed  mad,  for  though  he  knew  he 
had  not  passed  it,  he  went  back,  still  peering  on  the 
ground,  the  candle  held  above  his  head.  Suddenly  he 
stumbled  up  against  some  object,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
the  tall  figure  of  a  man  standing  right  in  his  path.  With 
a  wolfish  cry  of  mingled  fear  and  rage,  he  dropped  the 
candle  and  sprang  on  to  him. 

"You — you  thief !"  he  cried,  hoarsely ;  "give  it  to  me — 
give  it  me !" 

"The  man  made  an  effort  to  unlock  the  mad  grasp  of 
the  hands  round  his  throat,  then  scientifically  and  coolly 
knocked  his  assailant  down,  and,  holding  him  down  writh- 
ing, struck  a  match. 

Gasping  and  foaming,  Stephen  looked  up  and  saw  that 
it  was  Jack  Newcombe— Jack  Newcombe  regarding  him 
with  cool,  contemptuous  surprise  and  suspicion. 

"Well,"  he  said  contemptuously,  "so  ifs  you!  Are 
you  out  of  your  mind?"  and  he  flung  the  match  away 
and  allowed  Stephen  to  rise. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIll?  5!) 

Trembling  and  struggling  for  composure,  Stephen 
brushed  the  dust  from  his  black  coat  and  stood  rubbing 
his  chest,  for  Jack's  blow  had  been  straight  from  the 
shoulder. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?"  said  Jack, 
sternly.  "I  asked  you  if  you  had  gone  mad.  What  are 
you  doing  here  with  a  candle,  and  behaving  like  a  luna- 
tic?" 

Stephen  made  a  mighty  effort  for  composure,  and  a 
ghastly  smile  struggled  to  his  face. 

"My  dear  Jack,  how  you  startled  me !"  he  gasped.  "I 
was  never  so  frightened  in  my — my  life!" 

"So  it  appeared,"  said  Jack,  with  strong  disgust  in  his 
voice.  "Pick  up  the  candle — there  it  is." 

And  he  pointed  with  his  foot.  But  Stephen  was  by  no 
means  anxious  for  a  light. 

"Never  mind  the  candle,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite 
right — I  must  have  seemed  out  of  my  mind.  I — I  am 
very  much  upset,  my  dear  Jack." 

"Are  you  hurt?"  inquired  Jack,  but  with  no  great 
show  of  concern. 

"No,  no !"  gasped  Stephen ;  "don't  distress  yourself, 
my  dear  Jack — don't,  I  beg  of  you.  It  was  my  fault,  en- 
tirely. The— the  fact  is  that  I " 

He  paused,  for  Jack  had  got  the  candle,  lit  it,  and  held 
it  up  so  that  the  light  fell  upon  Stephen's  face. 

"Now,"  he  said,  his  tone  plainly  intimating  that  he 
would  prefer  to  see  Stephen's  face  while  he  made  his 
explanation. 

"The  fact  is,"  Stephen  began  again,  "I  have  had  the 
misfortune  to  lose  a  pocketbook — no,  not  a  pocketbook, 
that  is  scarcely  correct,  but  a  paper  which  I  fancied  I 
had  put  in  my  pocketbook,  and  which  must  have  dropped 
out.  It — it  was  a  draft  of  a  little  legal  document  which 
my  lawyer  had  sent  me — of  no  value,  utterly  valueless — oh, 
quite " 

"So  I  should  judge  front  the  calm  way  in  which  you 
accusefl  the  first  man  you  met  of  stealing  it,"  said  Jack, 
with  quiet  scorn. 

Stephen  bit  his  lip,  and  a  glance  of  hate  and  suspicion 
shot  from  under  his  eyelids. 


60  ONLY  OXK  LOVE;  OR, 

'Tray  forgive  me,  my  dear  Jack,''  he  said,  pressing  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  and  sighing.  "If  you  had  sat  up  for 
so  many  nights,  and  were  so  worn  and  overwrought,  you 
would  have  some  sympathy  with  my  overstrained  nerves. 
I  am  much  shaken  to-night,  my  dear  Jack — very  much 
shaken." 

And  indeed  he  was,  for  the  Savage's  fist  was  by  no 
means  a  soft  one. 

Jack  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  held 
the  candle  toward  him. 

"You  had  better  go  to  the  house  and  get  some  of  the 
servants  to  help  you  look  for  the  paper,"  he  said.  "Good- 
night." 

"Oh,  it  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  Stephen,  eagerly. 
"Doa't  go — stop  a  moment,  my  dear  Jack.  I — I  will 
walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  inn." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Jack,  curtly;  then,  as  a  suspicious 
look  gleamed  in  Stephen's  eyes,  he  added :  "Oh,  I  see !  you 
are  afraid  I  should  pick  it  up  in  the  road.  You  had 
better  come." 

Stephen  smiled,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Jack's  arm. 

"You — you  are  not  playing  a  joke  with  me,  my  dear 
Jack  ?  You  haven't  got  the — -document  in  your  pocket  all 
the  time?" 

"If  I  said  that  I  hadn't  you  wouldn't-  believe  me,  you 
know,"  he  replied.  "There,  take  your  hand  off  my  coat !" 

"Stop!    stop!"  exclaimed  Stephen,  with  a  ghostly  at-, 
tempt  at  a  laugh.     "Don't  go,  my  dear  Jack;    stop  at 
the  house  to-night.     I  should  feel  very  much  obliged,  in- 
deed,  if  you  would.     I  am  so  upset  to-night  that  I — I 
want  company.    Let  me  beg  of  you  to  stop." 

And  in  his  dread  lest  Jack  should  escape  out  of  sight, 
he  held  on  to  his  arm. 

Jack  shook  him  with  so  emiphatie  a  movement  of  dis- 
gust that  Stephen  was  in  imminent  danger  of  making  a 
further  acquaintance  with  the  lawn. 

"Go  indoors,"  he  said  sternly,  "and  leave  me  alone.  I'd 
rather  not  sleep  under  the  same  roof  with  you.  As  for 
your  lost  paper,  whatever  it  may  be,  you  had  better  look 
for  it  m  the  morning,  unless  you  want  to  get  into  further 
troubte,v  and  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  disappeared. 


WHO  WAS  THE  I£EIB?  61 

Stephen  waited  until  he  had  got  at  a  safe  distance,  and. 
blowing  out  the  candle,  followed  down  the  road  with 
stealthy  footsteps,  keeping  a  close  watch  on  the  rapidly- 
striding  figure,  and  examining  the  road  at  the  name  time. 
But  all  to  no  purpose;  Jack  reached  and  entered  the  inn 
without  stopping,  and  neither  going  nor  returning  could 
Stephen  see  anything  of  the  missing  will. 

Two  hours  afterward  he  crept  back  and  staggered  into 
the  library  more  dead  than  alive,  one  question  rankling  in 
his  disordered  brain. 

Had  Jack  Newcombe  found  the  will,  and,  if  not,  where 
was  it? 

After  a  time  the  paroxysm7,  of  fear  and  despair  passed, 
and  left  him  calmer.  His  acute  brain,  overwhelmed  but 
not  crushed  out,  began  to  recover  itself,  and  he  turned 
the  situation  round  and  round  until  he  had  come  to  a 
plan  of  action. 

It  was  not  a  very  definite  one,  it  was  rather  vague, 
but  it  was  the  most  reasonable  one  he  could  think  of. 

There  in  Warden  Forest,  living  as  the  daughter  of  a 
woodman,  who  was  himself  ignorant  of  her  legitimacy, 
was  the  girl.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  cursed  her  as 
he  thought  of  her.  Where  was  the  will?  Whoever  had 
got  it  would  no  doubt  come  to  him  first  to  make  terms, 
end,  failing  to  make  them!,  would  go  to  the  real  heiress. 

Stephen,  quick  as  lightning,  resolved  to  take  her  away. 

But  where? 

He  did  not  much  care  for  the  present,  so  that  it  was 
somewhere  under  his  eyes,  or  in  the  charge — the  custody, 
really — of  a  trustworthy  friend. 

The  only  really  trustworthy  friend  whom  Stephen  knew 
was  his  mother. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  he  muttered.  "Mother  shall  take 
this  girl  as — as — a  companion.  Poor  mother,  some  great 
ignorant,  clodhopping  wench  who  will  frighten  her  into  a 
nervous  fit.  Poor  mother!"  And  he  smiled  with  a 
feeble,  malicious  pleasure. 

There  are  some  men  who  take  a  delight  in  causing  pain 
even  to  those  who  are  devoted  to  them. 

"Dear  mo-thea:/'  he  wrote,  "I  hare  to  send  you  the  sad 
news  of  ray  uoete's  death.  Need  I  say  that  I  am  utterly 


62  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OR, 

overwhelmed  in  grief.  I  have  indeed  lo>t  a  friend  !" ("The 
malicious  mean  old  wolf,"  he  muttered,,  m  parenthesis.) 
"How  good  he  was  to  me!  But,  mother,  even  m  the 
midst  of  our  deepest  sorrows,  we  must  not  forget  the 
calls  of  charity.  I  have  a  little  duty  to  perform,  in  which 
I  require  your  aid.  I  fear  it  will  necessitate  your  making 
a  journey  to  Wermesley  station  on  this  line.  If  you  will 
come  down  by  the  10 :20  on  Wednesday,  I  will  meet  you 
at  Wermesley  station.  0o  not  mention  your  journey,  my 
dear  mother";  we  must  not  be  forgetful  that  we  are  en- 
joined to  do  good  by  stealth. 

"In  great  affliction, 
"Your  loving  son, 

"STEPHEN  DAVE:SANT." 

It  was  a  beautiful  letter,  and  clearly  proved  that  Stephen 
was  not  only  a  bad  man,  but  an  extremely  clever  and  dan- 
gerous one — for  he  could  retain  command  over  himself 
even  in  such  moments  as  these. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Let  us  hasten  from  the  gloomy  atmosphere  of  Hnrst 
Leigh,  and,  leaving  the  presence  of  the  thwarted  old  man 
lying  upstairs,  and  the  no  less  thwarted  young  man  writh- 
ing in  torturing  dread  in  the  darkened  library,  return  to 
Warden  Forest. 

With  fleet  feet  Una  fled  from  the  lake,  the  voices  of 
the  woodman  and  Jack  Newcombe  ringing  in  her  ears,  a 
thousand  tumultuous  emotions  surging  wildly  in  her  heart. 

Until  the  preceding  night  Gideon  Rolfe  had  seemed 
the  calmest  and  most  placable  of  fathers;  nothing  had 
occurred  to  ruffle  his  almost  studied  impassability.  New 
and  strange  experiences  seemed  to  crowd  upon  her  so  sud- 
denly that  she  scarcely  accepted  them  as  real.  Had  she 
been  dreaming,  and  would  she  wake  presently  to  find  the 
handsome  young  stranger,  with  his  deep  musical  voice, 
and  his  dark,  eloquent  eyes,  the  phantom  of  a  vision  ? 

As  she  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage  she  turned  aside 
and,  pranging  into  the  depths  of  the  wood,  sank  down 
upon  a  bank  of  moss  and  strove  to  recall  every  word, 


WHO  WAS  THE  HE1E?  63 

every  look,  every  slight  incident,  which  had  passed  since 
the  arrival  of  the  stranger ;  and,  as  she  did  so,  she  seemed 
vaguely  conscious  that  a  change,  indefinite  yet  undeniable, 
had  fallen  upon  her  life.  The  very  trees,  the  atmosphere 
itself,  seemed  changed,  and  in  place  of  that  perfect,  un- 
broken calm  which  had  hitherto  enwrapped  her  life,  a 
spirit  of  unrest,  of  vague  longing,  took  possession  of  her. 

A  meteor  had  crossed  the  calm,  serene  sky  of  her  ex- 
istence, vanishing  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  creating 
a  strange,  aching  void. 

Still  it  was  not  at  all  painful,  this  novel  feeling  of 
wistfulness  and  unrest;  a  faint  echo  of  some  mysterious 
delight  rang  in  the  inner  chambers  of  her  young  soul,  the 
newly  awakened  heart  stirred  within  her  like  an  impris- 
oned bird,  and  turned  to  the  new  light  which  had  dawned 
upon  her.  That  it  was  the  celestial  light  of  love  she  was 
completely  ignorant.  She  only  knew  and  felt,  with  all 
the  power  of  mind  and  soul,  that  a  spirit  had  fallen  upon 
her  life,  that  she  had,  half-blinded,  left  the  road  of  gray, 
unbroken  calm,  never  to  return — never  to  return. 

Step  by  step  she  recalled  all  that  had  passed,  and  sat 
revolving  the  strange  scene  with  ever-increasing  wonder.' 

What  did  it  mean?  Why  should  her  father  be  angry 
with  the  youth?  Why  should  he  accuse  and  insult  him, 
and  drive  her  away  as  if  fromi  the  presence  of  some  wild 
animal  who  was  seeking  to  devour  her  ? 

Wild  animal!  A  smile,  sad  and  wistful,  flitted  over 
her  beautiful  face  as  she  called  up  the  handsome  face 
and  graceful  form  of  the  youth.  Was  it  possible  that  one 
so  base  as  her  father  declared  him  to  be  could  look  as 
this  youth  had  looked,  speak  as  he  had  spoken?  With  a 
faint,  tremulous,  yet  unconscious  blush,  she  remembered 
how  graceful  he  looked  lying  at  her  feet,  his  lips  half 
parted  in  a  smile,  his  brow  frank  and  open  as  a  child's. 

And  yet  he  himself  had  said,  half  sadly,  that  he  was 
wild  and  wicked.  What  could  it  mean? 

Innocent  as  a  nun,  ignorant  of  all  that  belonged  to 
the  real  living  world,  she  sat  vainly  striving  to  solve  this, 
the  first  enigma  of  her  inner  life. 

€tecc,  as  she  sat  thinking  and  pondering,  her  eyes  cast 
down,  her  brows  knit,  her  fingers  strayed  to  her  right  arm 


64  ONLY  ONE  LOVK;  OK, 

with  a  gentle,  almost  caressing  touch.  It  was  the  arm 
upon  which  Jack's  hand  had  rested;  even  now  she  seemed 
to  feel  the  pressure  of  the  strong  fingers  just  as  she  heard 
the  rino-  of  his  deep,  musical  voice,  and  could  feel 
<raze  of  his  dark,  flashing  eyes;  they  had  looked  fierce  and 
savage  when  she  had  first  seen  them  at  the  open  door  of 
the  cottage  last  night,  but  this  morning  they  had  worn 
a  different  expression— a  tender,  half -pitying,  and  wholly 
gentle  expression,  which  softened  them.  It  was  thus  she 
liked  to  remember  them — thus  she  would  remember  them 
if  she  never  saw  them  again. 

And  as  this  thought  flashed  across  her  mind  a  wistful 
sadness  fell  upon  her,  and  a  vague  pain  came  into  her 
heart.  Should  she  never  see  him  again?  Never!  She 
looked  round  mournfully,  and  lo  !  the  whole  world  seemed 
changed;  the  sun  was  still  shining,  the  trees  were  still 
crowned  in  all  their  glory  of  summer  leafage,  but  it  all 
looked  gray  and  dark  to  her;  all  the  beauty  and  glory 
which  she  had  learned  to  love  had  gone — vanished  at  the 
mere  thought  that  she  should  never  see  him  again. 

Slowly  she  rose,  and  with  downcast  eyes  moved  toward 
the  cottage.  She  passed  in  at  the  open  door  and  looked 
round  the  room — that,  too,  seemed  altered,  something  was 
missing;  half-consciously  she  wandered  round,  touching 
with  the  same  half-caressing  gesture  the  chair  on  which 
Jack  Newcombe  had  sat,  opened  the  hook  at  the  page 
which  she  was  reading  while  he  was  eating  his  supper; 
a  spell  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her,  and  it  was  with 
a  start  like  one  awakening  from  a  dream  that  she  turned 
as  a  shadow  fell  across  the  room  and  Gideon  Kolfe  en- 
tered. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  questioningly,  curiously, 
but  without  fear.  The  cry  of  alarm  when  he  had  broken 
in  upon  them  by  the  lake  had  been  on  Jack's  account,  not 
her  own;  never  since  she  could  remember  had  Gideon 
Kolfe  spoken  harshly  to  her,  looked  angrily;  without  a 
particle  of  fear,  rather  with  a  vague  wonder,  she  looked 
and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

The  old  man's  face  wore  a  strange  expression;  all 
traces  of  the  fierce  passion  which  had  convulsed  &  a  short 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  65 

time  ago  had  passed  away,  and  in  its  place  was  a  stern 
gravity  which  was  almost  sad  in  its  grim  intensity. 

Setting  his  ax  aside,  he  paced  the  room  for  a  minute 
in  silence,  his  brows  knit,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back. 

Una  glided  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the 
wood,  her  head  leaning  on  her  arm. 

"Una/'  he  said,  suddenly,  his  voice  troubled  and  grave, 
but  not  unkind. 

She  started,  and  looked  around  at  him;  her  spirit  had 
fled  back  to  the  lake  again,  and  she  had  almost  forgotten 
that  he  was  in  the  room. 

"Una,  you  must  not  wander  in  the  forest  alone  again." 

"No !    Why  not  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if -he  did  not  know  how  to 
answer  her;  then  he  said,  with  a  frown: 

"Because  I  do  not  wish  it — because  the  man  you  saw 
here  last  night,  the  man  you  were  with  by  the  lake,  may 
come  again" — a  faint  light  of  gladness  shone  in  her  eyes, 
and  he  saw  it,  and  frowned  sternly  as  he  went  on — "and 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  meet  him." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  downcast,  her 
hands  tightly  clasped  in  front  of  her;  then  she  looked  up. 

"Father,  tell  me  why  you  spoke  so  angrily  to  him — 
why  do  you  not  want  him  to  come  to  Warden  again  ?" 

"I  spoke  as  he  deserved,"  he  answered;  "and  I  would 
rather  that  Warden  should  be  filled  with  wild  beasts  than 
that  he  should  cross  your  path  again." 

Her  face  paled  slightly,  and  her  eyes  opened  with 
wonder  and  pain. 

"Is  he  so  very  bad  and  wicked?"  she  asked,  almost  in- 
audibly. 

Gideon  Eolfe  strode  to  and  fro  for  a  moment  before 
he  answered.  How  should  he  answer  her  ? — how  warn  and 
caution  her  without  destroying  the  innocence  which,  like 
the  sensitive  plant,  withers  at  a  touch  ? 

"Is  it  not  sufficient  that  I  wish  it,  Una?"  he  said. 
"Why  are  you  not  satisfied  ?  Wicked !  Yes,  he's  wicked  ; 
all  men  are  wicked,  and  he's  the  most  wicked  and  base !" 

"You  know  him,  father?"  she  asked.  "You  would  not 
say  so  if  you  did  not.  I  am  sorry  he  is  so  bad." 


66  ONLY  OXti  LOVE;  OE, 

"Look  at  me,  Una,"  he  said. 

She  turned,  her  eyes  downcast   and  hidden,  her  lips 
trembling  for  a  moment. 
"Yes,  father." 

"Una,"  he  said,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Why  are 
you  changed — why  do  you  shrink  from  me?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  curious  mixture  of  innocent 
pride  and  dignity. 

"I  don't  shrink  from  you,  father,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

Gideon's  hand  dropped  from  her  shoulder,  and  the 
frown  gave  place  to  a  sad  expression.  "Has  the  time 
I  looked  forward  to  with  fear  and  dread  come  at  last?" 
he  murmured,  inaudibly,  and  he  paced  to  and  fro  again, 
as  if  endeavoring  to  arrive  at  some  decision. 

Una  watched  him  with  dreamy,  questioning  eyes,  in 
which  shone  a  tender  mournfulness.  Why  were  all  men 
wicked?  Why  was  this  one  man,  with  the  handsome  face 
and  the  musical  voice,  more  wicked  than  the  rest?  What 
was  it  that  her  father  knew  that  should  make  him  hate  the 
youth  so?  These  were  the  questions  that  haunted  her  as 
she  waited  silent  and  motionless. 

At  last,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  putting 
some  decision  on  one  side,  Gideon  Rolfe  turned  to  her 
and  motioned  her  to  the  window-seat.  "Una,"  he  said, 
"last  night  you  were  wondering  why  your  lot  should  be 
different  from  that  of  other  girls ;  you  were  wondering 
why  I  have  kept  you  here  in  Warden,  and  out  of  the 
world.  It  is  so,  is  it  not?" 

She  did  not  answer  in  words,  but  her 'eyes  said  "yes," 
plainly. 

Gideon  Eolfe  sighed,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his 
brow ;  it  was  a  hand  hardened  by  toil,  but  it  was  not  the 
hand  of  a  peasant,  any  more  than  was  his  tone  or  his 
words  those  of  one. 

Una,  I  have  foreseen  this  question;  I  have  been  ex 
pecting  it,  ard  I  had  resolved  that  when  it  came  I  would 
answer  it  "But,"and  his  lips  twitched,  "I  cannot  do  it— 
I  cannot,"  and  his  brow  contracted  as  if  he  were  suffering 
iorae  great,  mental  anguish.  "For  my  sake,  do  not  press 
me.  In  time  to  come,  sooner  or  later,  you  must  kno\f 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  (J7 

the  secret  of  your  life,  you  must  learn  why  and  wherefore 
your  whole  life  has  been  spent  in  seclusion ;  you  have 
guessed  that  there  is  some  mystery,  some  story — there  is. 
It  must  remain  a  mystery  still.  For  your  own  sake  1  dare 
not  draw  aside  the  veil  which  conceals;  for  your  own 
sake  my  lips  are  for  the  present  sealed.  Child,  can  you 
tell  me  that,  secluded  and  lonely  as  your  life  has  been,  it 
has  been  an  unhappy  one?" 

"Father !"  she  murmured,  and  her  eyes  filled  slowly. 

"God  forgive  me  if  it  has  been !"  he  said,  sadly.  "I 
have  striven  to  make  it  a  happy  one." 

Silently  she  rose  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and 
put  up  her  lips  to  kiss  him,  but  with  a  gentle  gesture  he 
put  her  away  from  him. 

"Una,  listen  to  me.  All  my  life  I  have  had  but  one 
aim,  one  purpose,  your  happiness  and  welfare.  For  your 

sake   I   left   the   world   and   an  honored  name "   he 

stopped  suddenly,  warned  by  the  gentle  wonder  of  her 
gaze,  and  with  a  faint  color  in  his  face  hurried  on — "for 
your  sake,  and  yours  only.  Do  you  think  that  it  is  by 
choice  that  I  have  kept  you  hidden  from  the  world?  No, 
but  of  necessity.  Una,  between  the  world  and  you  yawns 
a  wide  gulf.  On  this  side  are  peace,  and  innocence,  and 
happiness;  on  the  other,"  and  his  voice  grew  grave  and 
solemn,  "lie  misery  and — shame."  White  and  wonder- 
ing, she  gazed  at  him,  and  the  innocent  wonder  in  the 
beautiful  face  recalled  him  to  himself.  "Enough !  You 
can  trust  me,  Una;  it  is  no  idle,  meaningless  warning. 
Remember  what  I  have  said,  when  your  thoughts  turn  to 
the  world  beyond  the  forest,  when  you  grow  weary  and 
impatient  with  the  quiet  life  which,  though  it  may  seem  ' 
sad  and  weary,  is  the  only  one  you  can  ever  know  without 
passing  that  gulf  of  which  I  have  spoken." 

"And  now  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  promise,  Una." 

"A  promise,  father?"  she  echoed,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes ;  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  if  this — this 
young  man  should  come,  as  he  has  threatened  to  do — 
that  if  he  should  come  to  you,  and  speak  to  you,  you  will 
not  listen,  will  not  speak  to  him." 

An  impatient  frown  knitted  Gideon  Rolfe's  brow. 

"Is  this  so  much  to  ask  you?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voree. 


68  ON'LY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"Is  it  so  grave  a  thing  to  demand  of  you  that  you  should 
avoid  a  man  whom  you  have  scon  but  twice  in  your  life, 
ono  whom  you  know  to  bo  wickod  and  worthless  ? 

"tJirl,"  he  exclaimed,  in  low,  harsh  accents,  "has  the 
curse  fallen  upon  you — already?  Has  he  bewitched  you? 
Speak?  Why  do  you  not  speak?  Has  all  the  careful 
guarding  of  years  been  set  at  naught  and  rendered  of  no 
avail  by  the  mere  sight  of  one  of  his  race,  by  a  few 
idle  words  spoken  by  one  of  his  hateful  kin?" 

He  grasped  her  shoulder ;  instantly,  with  a  revulsion  of 
feeling,  he  withdrew  his  hand,  and  bent  his  head  with  a 
gesture  almost  of  humility. 

"Una,  forgive  me.  You  see  how  this  unmans  me — 
can  you  not  understand  how  great  must  be  the  danger 
from  which  I  wish  to  save  you?  Promise  me  what  I 
ask  you,  for  your  own  sake — ay,  and  for  his." 

"For  his?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  for  his.  Let  him  but  attempt  to  cross  your  path 
again,  and  I  will  not  hold  my  hand.  I  held  it  once—- 
would to  Heaven  I  had  not !  I  say,  for  his  sake,  promise 
that  you  will  hold  no  speech  with  him !" 

"Father,  what  has  he  done  to  make  you  hate  him  so?", 
she  asked. 

"I  cannot,  I  will  not  tell  you  more  than  this :  His  race 
has  ruined  my  life  and  yours — ruined  it  beyond  all  repara- 
tion here  and  hereafter.  No  more.  I  wait  foryourpromise." 

"I  promise,"  she  said. 

|<Good,"  he  said.    "I  can  trust  you,  child." 

"Yes,  you  can  trust  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice ;  then 
with  slow,  listless  steps  she  crossed  the  room  and  stole 
up-stairs.  

CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Savage,  wholly  unconscious  of,  and  totally  indif- 
:  to,  the  fact  that  his  every  footstep  was  watched 
by  Stephen,  entered  the  "Bush"  Inn  and  went  straight 
his  room,  the  little  knot  of  regular  customers,  who 
Irmking  and  smoking  in  the  parlor,  either  rising 
stfully  as  he  entered  or  maintaining  an  equally  re- 
spectful silence  until  he  was  out  of  hearing 

Mr.  Jade's  a  fino  fellow,"  said  the  landlord,  looking 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  69 

at  the  fire  solemnly.  "Did  you  notice  his  face  as  he 
went  through?  I'm  afraid  it's  all  over  with  the  old 
squire.  Well,  well,  rest  his  soul,  I  say.  I'm  not  one  to 
bear  grudges  against  the  dead." 

There  was,  if  not  a  hearty,  a  unanimous  assent  to  this 
dutiful  sentiment,  and  the  landlord,  encouraged,  ventured 
a  little  further,  looking  first  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  the 
door  was  shut,  and  then  glancing  at  a  little  wrinkled  faced 
man  who  sat  in  the  corner  by  the  fireplace,  and  looked, 
in  his  rusty  hlack  suit,  like  a  lawyer's  clerk,  as  indeed  he 
was. 

"All  over  now,  Mr.  Skettle,"  said  the  landlord,  with  a 
little  cough.  "I  wonder — ahem — who'll  be  the  next 
squire  ?" 

The  old  clerk  peered  out  from  under  his  hairless  brows, 
and  shook  his  head  with  a  dry  smile ;  it  was  a  very  fair 
imitation  of  his  master's,  Mr.  Hudsley's,  manner,  and  never 
failed  to  impress  the  company  at  the  "Bush." 

"Aha!"  he  breathed.  "Hem— yes.  Time  will  prove — 
time  will  prove,  Jobson." 

Jobson,  the  landlord,  looked  round  and  winked  with  im- 
pressive admiration,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Deep  fellow, 
Skettle ;  knows  all  about  it,  mind  you,  but  not  a  word !" 

"Well,"  said  the  parish  clerk,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head,  "if  wishing  would  make  the  mare  to  go,  I  know  who'd 
be  the  Squire  o'  Hurst,"  and  he  pointed  with  his  pipe  to 
the  ceiling,  above  which  the  Savage  was  thoughtfully  pac- 
ing to  and  fro. 

"We've  had  enough  o'  Davenants,"  began  the  miller; 
but  Jobson  s-topped  him  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"No  names,  South — no  names ;  this  air  a  public  house, 
and  I'm  a  man  as  minds  my  own  business." 

"So  was  the  last  squire,"  retorted  the  miller,  who  was 
not  to  be  put  down — "leastways,  he  didn't  mjeddle  or  help 
his  neighbors.  Not  one  shilling  have  I  took  from  the 
Hurst  since  I  was  that  high.  Is  there  a  man  in  this  room 
as  can  say  he'll  be  a  penny  the  worse  for  Squire  Ralph's 
death  ? 

"And  from  what  I  see  it  seems  to  me  that  if  things  go 
on  as  they  appear  to  be  going,  we  shan't  be  much  better 
for  the  new  squire,  if  the  name's  to  be  the  same." 


70  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

"A  nice  spoken  gentleman,  Mr.  Stephen,"  muttered  the 
tailor,  from  behind  the  table. 

The  miller  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"There's  some  grain  as  grinds  so  soft  that  you  can't  keep 
it  on  the  ground  from  the  wind;  but  it  don't  make  good 
bread,  neighbor.  No !  Now  the  youngster  up  above,"  and 
he  jerked  his  head  toward  the  ceiling,  "he  conies  of  a  differ- 
ent branch — same  tree,  mind  yer,  but  a  healthier  branch. 
It  will  be  good  news  for  Hurst  Leigh  if  it's  found  that 
Master  Jack  is  to  be  our  head." 

"Nothing  soft  about  Mr.  Jack.  If  all  we  hear  be  true, 
it's  a  pretty  wild  branch  of  the  tree  he  comes  from." 

"They  say  he's  wild.  No  doubt ;  he  always  was.  I  can 
remember  him  a  boy  home  for  the  holidays.  He  used  to 
come  down  to  the  mill  and  poach  my  trout — a  bit  of  a 
boy  no  higher  than  that" — and  he  put  his  hand  against 
the  table — "as  fine  a  boy  as  ever  I  see.  One  day  I  caught 
him,  and  told  him  I'd  either  give  him  a  thrashing  or  tell 
his  uncle ;  for,  do  yer  see,  we  alms  called  the  old  squire  his 
uncle. 

"  'All  right,'  said  he,  'wait  till  I've  landed  this  fish  and 
we'll  settle  it  between  us  like  gentlemen.'  Another  time 
I  found  him  in  the  orchard.  'Well,  Master  Jack/  says  I, 
'bean't  you  got  enough  apples  at  the  Hurst,  but  you  must 
come  and  plague  me?'  He  thought  a  moment,  then  he 
looks  up  with  that  audacious  flash  in  his  eyes,  and  says, 
quiet  enough :  'Stolen  fruit  is  the  sweetest,  South.  If  you 
feel  put  upon,  take  it  out  of  the  Hurst  Orchard.  I  give 
you  leave.'  What  was  to  be  done  with  a  boy  like  that? 
Fear !  He  didn't  know  what  fear  was.  Do  any  o'  you 
remember  that  roan  mare  as  the  old  parson  had  ?  Well, 
Master  Jack  hears  us  talking  o'  the  spiteful  beast  one  day, 
and  nothing  'ud  do  but  he  must  go  off  and  ask  the  parson 
t  him  ride  'un.  Of  course  the  old  fellow  said  no.  Two 
nights  after  that  the  young  varmint  breaks  open  the  sta- 
bles, takes  out  the  mare,  saddles  her,  and  rides  her  out  to 
the  common.  I  was  late  at  the  mill  that  night,  and  I 
*?"  hrerfome  clatterin£  <^wn  the  yard  like  a  fire-engine, 

ith  Master  Jack  on  her  back,  his  eyes  flashing  and  his 
hair  a-flymg,  and  him  a-laughing  as  if  it  was  the  rarest 
bit  o  fun  in  the  world.  I'd  just  time  to  cut  across  the 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  71 

meadow  to  the  five-barred  fence,  and  here  he  come  past  mo, 
making  straight  for  the  fence,  waving  his  hand  and  shout- 
ing someut  about  Dick  Turpin.  Ah,  and  he  took  the  fence. 
too,  and  when  that  vicious  beast  threw  him,  and  we  came 
up  to  him,  lying  all  o'  a  heap,  with  his  arm  broke,  and 
the  blood  streaming  from  his  face — what's  he  do  but  laugh 
at  us,  and  swear  as  we'd  startled  her !  And  as  for  fighting ! 
There  warn't  a  week  but  what  he'd  come  to  the  mill,  all  cut 
and  mauled,  for  the  missis  to  wash  him  and  put  him  to 
rights.  He'd  never  go  home  to  the  Hurst  those  times. 
Even  then  the  old  squire  and  him  didn't  agree.  The  old 
man  called  him  a  Savage,  and  I  hear  as  that's  what  they 
call  him  up  in  London,  and  yet  there  warn't  a  house  in 
Leigh  as  he  warn't  welcome  in.  Many  and  many  a  time 
he's  slept  up  in  the  mill  loft  after  one  of  his  harum-scarum 
tricks,  and  many's  the  time  I've  faced  the  old  squire  when 
he's  come  after  him  with  a  horsewhip." 

"They  say  that  he  run  through  all  the  money,  as  was  his 
by  rights,  up  in  London  in  fast  living,"  said  the  parish 
clerk,  gravely. 

"May  be,"  said  the  miller,  curtly.  "If  fast  living  means 
open-handed  living,  it's  like  enough;  he  never  could  keep 
a  shilling  when  he  was  a  boy,  the  first  tramp  as  passed  had 
it,  safe  as  a  gun.  What's  bred  in  the  bone  must  come  out 
in  the  flesh.  Here's  to  the  new  squire — if  it  be  Master 
Jack,"  and  the  sturdy  old  man  raised  his  glass  and  emptied 
its  contents  at  one  vigorous  but  steady  pull. 

Meanwhile  the  subject  of  the  discussion  paced  to  and 
fro,  pulling  at  his  brier,  and  indulging  in  a  study  of  the 
brownest  description. 

Never  perhaps  in  his  life  had  Jack  been  so  upset,  so 
serious  and  so  sobered. 

In  the  first  place  the  sudden— or  rather  sudden  to  Jack — 
death  of  the  old  man  with  whom  he  had  lived  and  quar- 
reled as  a  boy,  affected  him  more  deeply  than  even  he  was 
aware.  There  in  the  silent  room  in  the  inn,  he  recalled  all 
the  old  man's  good  qualities,  all  the  little  kindnesses  he 
had  done  him,  Jack,  and  more  than  all,  the  few  last  sol- 
emn and  quite  unexpectedly  affectionate  words  which  had 
dropped  from  his  dying  lips. 

Jack,  puffing  at  his  pipe  and  rubbing  his  short  hair  with 


72  ONLY  OXE  LOYE;  OTT. 

a  puzzled  frown,  went  over  the  scene  again  and  hgain,  and 
with  no  mercenary  thoughts  of  the  old  man's  declaration 
that  he  had  remembered  Jack  in  his  will,  but  with  reference 
to  the  mysterious  allusions  in  the  disposal  of  the  large  part 
of  the  property;  then  Jack's  mind  would  fly  off  to  the  fear- 
ful scene  at  the  actual  death. 

The  wild  cry,  the  white  and  horrified  face  of  Stephen 
the  puzzled  and  sternly  questioning  one  of  the  old  lawyer. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

And  still  more  mysterious,  what  was  the  meaning  of 
Stephen's  conduct  on  the  lawn?  What  was  he  hunting 
for  with  such  intense  eagerness  as  to  make  him  fly  at  Jack 
like  a  madman? 

Jack — as  no  doubt  the  reader  will  have  surmised — was 
not  clever. 

He  could  not  piece  this  and  that  together,  and  from 
disjointed  incidents  form  an  intelligent  whole,  as  a  child 
does  with  a  box  of  puzzles. 

The  whole  thing  was  a  mystery  to  him,  and  grew  mor$ 
confusing  and  bewildering  the  more  he  thought  of  it. 

It  takes  a  villain  thoroughly  to  appreciate  a  villain,  a 
thief  to  understand  and  catch  a  thief;  and  Jack,  being 
neither  one  nor  the  other,  utterly  failed  to  understand 
Stephen. 

That  he  disliked  him,  with  a  feeling  more  like  contempt 
than  hatred,  was  a  matter  of  course,  but  if  any  one  had 
told  Jack  straight  out  that  Stephen  had  abstracted  the  will, 
Jack  would  in  all  probability  have  refused  to  credit  it. 
Will  stealing  and  all  such  meanness  was  so  thoroughly  out 
of  his  line  that  he  would  not  have  understood  how  Stephen, 
,  led  on  step  by  step,  could  have  possibly  been  guilty  of  it. 

Then  again,  something  else  came  forcing  itself  on  these 
thoughts  concerning  the  strange  events  at  the  Hurst.  For 
the  life  of  him  he  could  not  forget  the  Forest  of  Warden 
and  all  that  had  happened  to  him  within  its  leafy  shades. 

At  one  moment  it  seemed  as  if  years  must  have  elapsed 
since  he  lost  his  way  and  forced  an  entrance  at  the  wood- 
man s  hut  at  another  he  was  half  inclined  to  believe  that  he 
had  dined  rather  heavily  at  the  club  and  dreamed  it  all. 
Una  he  could  not  realize  that  they  had  met,  touched 
hands  and  exchanged  speech. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEI1U  73 

Jack  could  not  get  the  beautiful  face  out  of  hi*  menial 
vision;  it  mingled  with  the  wan  face  of  the  dying  man. 
with  Stephen's  pale,  distorted  countenance;  it  seemed  to 
beam  and  shine  upon  him  from  the  dark  corners  of  the 
room  with  the  same  frank,  pure,  innocent  smile  with  which 
it  had  shone  down  upon  him  as  he  lay  at  her  feet  in  the 
woods. ' 

And  then  the  girl's  surroundings !  The  extraordinary 
father,  with  his  laborer's  dress  and  his  refined  speech  and 
bearing.  What  mystery  enveloped  the  little  group  of  per- 
sons buried  in  the  depths  of  a  wood,  living  apart  from 
the  world  ? 

Jack  rumpled  his  hair  and  drew  a  long  breath  eloquent 
of  confusion  and  bewilderment. 

It  was  certainly  extraordinary !  Three  days  ago  he  had 
left  London,  prosaic  London,  and  was  now  plunged  to  the 
neck  in  a  sea  of  romance  and  secrecy. 

On  one  thing  he  was,  however,  resolved.  He  would  keep 
his  threat  or  promise.  He  would  go  to  Warden  Forest  and 
see  that  beautiful  face  again,  though  he  had  to  brave  the 
anger  of  twenty  mysterious  woodmen.  He  thought  at  first 
that  he  would  start  on  the  morrow,  but  some  feeling — 
perhaps  some  reverence  and  respect  for  the  dead  man — 
made  him  change  his  mind. 

"No"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  and  prepared  for  bed;  "I'll  stay  here  over  the 
funeral,  and  then " 

But,  though  he  felt  tired  and  worn  out,  it  was  hours 
before  he  could  sleep,  and  when  he  did,  his  spirit  fled  back 
to  Warden  Forest,  and  the  face  that  had  haunted  him  wak- 
ing hovered  about  him  in  dreams. 

Was  it  love;  love  at  first  sight?  Jack  would  have  been 
first  to  laugh  at  the  idea;  but  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  all 
the  loves  which  had  occurred  in  his  wild,  reckless  life  had 
never,  in  their  warmest  epochs,  moved  him  as  the  remem- 
brance of  Una  had  done ;  not  one  had  had  the  power  to  dis- 
turb his  sleep  or  to  bring  him  dreams. 

Jack  kept  to  his  resolution.  Five  days  passed,  and  he 
stuck  to  the  "Bush"  manfully..  They  were,  perhaps,  the 
dreariest  days  he  ever  spent  in  his  life,  and  he  never 
thought  of  them  afterward  without  a  shudder. 


p4  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OB, 

Every  day  he  was  tempted  io  take  flight  and  go  to  Lon- 
don until  the  day  of  the  funeral ;  but  his  promise  to  Huds- 
ley  kept  him  at  his  post.  lie  would  not  even  leave  the 

"Bush." 

On  the  first  day,  a  note,  written  on  the  deepest  of  mourn- 
ing paper,  had  come  from  Stephen,  begging  him  to  come 
to  the  Hurst ;  but  he  had  written  a  firm  and  what  was  for 
him  a  polite  refusal.  Of  Stephen  himself  he  saw  nothing. 
Mr.  Hudsley  had  also  sent,  and  asked  him.  to  stay  at  his 
house ;  and  this,  too,  Jack  had  declined. 

The  fact  was  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone,  to  think  over  the 
strange  adventures  in  the  forest,  to  dwell  with  unceasing 
wistfulness  on  the  beautiful  face  and  sweet,  musical  voice. 

So  *he  clung  to  the  inn ;  taking  a  morning  dip  in  the 
river ;  strolling  about,  with  his  brier  pipe  in  his  mouth  and 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  exchanging  a  word  with  this  man 
and  the  other,  and  bestowing  his  odd  change  on  any  chil- 
dren he  happened  to  meet.  Sometimes  he  would  drop  in  at 
one  of  the  cottages,  where  he  was  so  welcome  when  a  boy, 
and  smoke  and  chat ;  but  usually  he  kept  to  his  room. 

But  wherever  he  went  he  was  the  observed  of  all  ob- 
servers. Every  night  the  little  club  that  met  in  the  "Bush'" 
parlor  talked  about  him,  and  wondered  why  he  didn't  go  to 
the  Hurst,  and  whether  he  would  be  the  new  squire. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  arrived  at  last — a  cold,  wet  day, 
that  foreshadowed  the  approaching  autumn ;  and  Jack  put 
on  his  black  suit — made  by  the  village  tailor  who  had  de- 
scribed Stephen  as  a  nice-spoken  gentleman — and  went  up 
to  the  Hurst. 

It  was  the  first  time,  he  had  been  near  it  since  the  night 
he  had  th'e  scuffle  with  Stephen  on  the  lawn ;  and,  to  Jack's 
eyes,  it  looked  gloomier  than  ever. 

As  he  entered  the  hall,  a  shrunken  figure  in  shabby  black 
came  to  meet  him ;  it  was  old  Skettle,  Hudsley's  clerk. 

The  old  man  peered  at  him  curiously,  and  made  him  a 
respectful  bow  in  response  to  Jack's  blunt  greeting,  and 
opened  the  library  door. 

Mr  Hudsley  was  standing  at  the  table,  and  looked  up 
h  his  wrinkled  face  and  keen  eyes— not  a  trace  of  ex- 
sion  beyond  keenness  in  them.  Jack  shook  hands  with 
mm  and  looked  around. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  75 

"Where  is  Stephen?"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  Stephen  entered.  Jack, 
frank  and  candid,  stared  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"Are  we  ready?" 

And  they  passed  out. 

In  silence  they  stood  beside  the  grave  while  all  that  was 
mortal  of  Ralph  Davenant  was  consigned  to  the  earth,  and 
in  silence  they  returned  to  the  library. 

With  the  same  stony,  impassive  countenance,  Mr.  Huds- 
ley  seated  himself  at  the  head  of  the  table;  Stephen  sank 
into  a  chair  beside  him,  and  sat  with  his  eyes  hidden  under 
the  white  lids ;  Jack  stood  with  folded  arms  beside  the  win- 
dow, glancing  at  the  far-stretching  lawns  and  watching 
the  servants  as  they  filed  in,  a  long  line  of  black. 

When  they  had  all  entered  Mr.  Hudsley  draw  from  his 
pocket  a  folded  parchment,  slowly  put  on  his  spectacles, 
and  without  looking  round,  said : 

"I  am  now  about  to  read  the  last  will  and  testament  of 
Ralph  Davenant." 

There  was  a  pause,  a  solemn  pause,  then  he  looked  up 
and  said: 

"This  will  was  drawn  up  by  me  on  January  —  last  year. 
It  is  the  last  will  of  which  I  have  any  cognizance.  A 
careful  search  has  been  made,  but  no  other  document  of 
the  kind  has  been  found.  That  is  so,  Mr.  Stephen,  is  it 
not?"  and  he  turned  to  Stephen  so  suddenly  that  all  eyes 
followed  his. 

Stephen  paused  a  moment,  then  raised  his  lids,  and  with 
a  shake  of  his  head  and  a  sigh  murmured  an  assent. 

Mr.  Hudsley  allowed  his  keen  eyes  to  rest  on  him  for  an 
instant,  then  slowly  looked  in  the  direction  of  Jack. 

"A  most  careful  search,"  he  repeated. 

Jack,  feeling  that  the  remark  was  addressed  to  him, 
nodded  and  looked  at  the  lawn  again. 

Mr.  Hudsley  cleared  his  throat,  and  opened  the  crackling 
parchment. 

There  was  an  intense  silence,  so  intense  that  Stephen's 
labored  breathing  could  be  heard  as  plainly  as  the  rain  on 
the  windows. 

In  the  same  dry,  hard  voice  Mr.  Hudsley  began  to  rend. 
Clause  by  clause,  wrapped  in  the  beautiful  legal  jargon  in 


76  OXLY  OXK  LOVE;  OB, 

which  such  documents  are,  for  some  inscrutable  reasons, 
worded,  no  one  understanding  the  import,  but  suddenly  fa- 
miliar words  struck  upon  the  ear.  They  were  the  servants' 
legacies,  and  a  mourning  ring  to  Mr.  Hudsley;  then,  in  a 
stillness  that  was  oppressive,  there  fell  the  words: 

"To  my  nephew,  Stephen  Davenant,  I  will  the  whole  and 
sole  remainder  of  all  1  possess,  be  it  in  lands  or  money, 
houses  or  securities,  all  and  of  every  kind  of  property,  de- 
ducting only  the  afore-mentioned  legacies." 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  assemblage,  every  eye  turned, 
as  if  magnetized,  to  the  white,  death-like  face  of  the  heir. 

There  he  sat,  the  new  squire,  the  owner  of  Hurst  Leigh 
and  the  uncounted  thousands  of  old  Ralph  Davenant,  mo- 
tionless, white,  too  benumbed  to  tremble. 

Slowly  Mr.  Hudsley  read  over  the  signatures,  and  then 
slowly  commenced  to  fold  the  parchment. 

Then,  from  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  Jack  emerged, 
pale,  too,  but  with  cool,  calm  dignity. 

Quite  quietly,  and  with  perfect  self-possession,  he  came 
to  the  table  and  looked  at  the  dry,  wrinkled  face. 

"So  I  understand,  Mr.  Hudsley,  that  the  squire  has  left 
me — nothing." 

Mr.  Hudsley  looked  up,  no  trace  of  expression  on  his 
face. 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Newcombe,"  he  replied. 

"He  has  not  named  me,"  said  Jack. 

"He  has  not  named  you  in  this  will." 

Jack  bowed,  and  was  turning  from  the  table  when 
Stephen  started  to  his  feet. 

For  one  moment  his  eyes  rested  on  Jack's  face  with  an 
awful,  piercing  look  of  scrutiny,  then  his  eyes  lit  up  with  a 
malicious  gleam  of  triumph,  but  it  disappeared  instantly, 
and  with  a  gesture  of  honest  generosity  and  regret,  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"Not  named!    My  dear  Jack!    But  stay!    I  see  how 
My  uncle  felt  that  he  could  trust  to  my  feeling  in 
ter     He  knew  that  you  would  not  have  to  look  to 
me  m  vain. 


^a,Ckvl?-r^ed  a?d, looked  at  nim  with  infinite  contempt 
I  unbelief,  and  then  slowly  passed  out. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  77 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Two  days  passed  since  Tina  had  given  her  promise  that 
should  Jack  Newcombe  come  to  seek  her  she  would  hold 
no  converse  with  him.  How  much  that  promise  had  cost 
her  no  one  could  say;  she  herself  did  not  know.  She  only 
knew  that  whereas  her  life  had  always  seemed  dull  and  pur- 
poseless, it  had,  since  Jack  Newcombe's  visit,  grown  utterly 
dreary  and  joyless. 

Was  it  love  ?  She  did  not  ask  herself  the  question.  Had 
she  done  so,  she  could  not  have  answered  it. 

Any  school-girl  of  fifteen  feeling  as  Una  felt  would  have 
known  that  she  was  in  love,  but  Una's  only  schooling  had 
consisted  of  the  few  stern  lessons  of  Gideon  Rolfe. 

"I  can  never  see  him,  hear  him,,  speak  to  him  again," 
was  her  one  sad  reflection;  "but  if  I  could  be  somewhere 
near  him,  unseen !" 

Then,  through  her  brain,  her  father's  words  rang  with 
melancholy  persistence.  This  youth,  whose  eyes  had  seemed 
so  frank  and  brave,  whose  voice  rang  with  music  so  new 
and  sweet,  was,  so  her  father  said,  unutterably  wicked 
One  to  be  avoided  as  a  dangerous  animal !  It  could  not  bu  I 
be  true ;  she  thought  her  father  was  truth  itself. 

But  if  it  were  so,  then  how  false  the  world  must  be,  for 
one  to  look  and  speak  so  gently,  and  yet  be  so  wicked ! 

All  day  she  wandered  in  the  woods,  returning  to  the 
cottage  pale  and  listless,  to  leave  her  plate  untouched  or 
at  best  trifled  with.  Gideon  Rolfe  saw  the  change  which 
had  befallen  her,  but  held  his  peace,  though  a  bitter  rage 
filled  his  heart;  Martha  Rolfe  chided  her  for  her  listless- 
ness,  and  tried  to  tempt  her  to  eat ;  but  Una  put  chiding 
and  coaxing  aside  with  a  gentle  smile,  and  escaped  to  the 
lake  where  she  could  dream  alone  and  undisturbed. 

The  two  days  passed — on  the  third,  as  she  was  sitting  be- 
side the  spot  which  had  grown  sacred  in  her  eyes,  with  its 
crushed  and  broken  ferns,  she  heard  steps  behind.  Think- 
ing that  they  were  those  of  her  father  or  one  of  the  char- 
coal burners,  she  did  not  turn  her  head.  The  footsteps 
drew  nearer,  and  a  man  came  out  from  the  thick  wood 
and  stood  on  the  margin  of  the  lake,  and  remained  for  a 
moment  looking  about  him. 


78  OXLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

Una  was  so  hidden  by  the  iall  brake  that  she  remained 
unseen,  and  sat  bold  ing  her  breath  watching  him. 

He  was  tall,  tbin,  and  dressed  in  black,  and  when  he 
turned  his  face  toward  her,  Una  saw  that  lie  was  not  ill- 
looking.  She  might  have  thought  him  handsome  but  for 
that  other  face  which  was  always  in  her  mental  vision.  He 
was  very  pale,  and  looked  anxious  and  ill  at  ease ;  and  as  he 
stood  looking  before  him  his  right  hand  took  his  left  into 
custody.  It  was  Stephen  Davenant. 

For  "a  few  moments  he  stood  with  a  half-searching,  half- 
absent  expression  on  his  pale  face,  then  turned  and  en- 
tered the  wood  again. 

Pale  with  wonder  and  curiosity,  Una  rose  and  looked 
after  him,  and  to  her  infinite  surprise  saw  a  carriage  slowly 
approaching. 

A  lady  was  seated  in  it,  a  lady  with  a  face  as  pale  as 
the  man's  but  with  a  still  more  anxious  and  deprecating  ex- 
pression. 

Una,  with  the  quickness  of  sight  acquired  by  a  life  spent 
in  communion  with  nature,  could  see,  even  at  that  distance, 
that  the  lady's  eyes  were  like  those  of  the  man's,  and,  fur- 
thermore, that  she  was  awaiting  his  approach  with  a  ner- 
vous timidity  that  almost  amounted  to  fear. 

With  fast  beating  heart  Una  watched  them  wondering 
what  could  have  brought  them  to  Warden,  wondering  who 
and  what  they  were,  when  suddenly  her  heart  gave  a  great 
bound,  for  the  gentleman,  turning  to  the  driver,  said,  in  a 
soft,  low  voice : 

"We  are  looking  for  the  cottage  of  a  woodman,  named 
Gideon  Eolfe." 

"Never  heard  of  it,  sir.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the 
forest  it  is  in?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen. 

"Then  it's  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay," 
retorted  the  man. 

"However  difficult,  it  must  be  found,"  said  Stephen. 

Drive  on  till  you  come  to  some  road  and  follow  that.  It 
may  lead  us  to  some  place  where  we  can  ascertain  the 
direction  of  this  man's  cottage." 

The  man  touched  his  horse  with  the  whip,  and  still  Una 
stood  as  if  spell-bound,  hut,  suddenly  remembering  that 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  70 

they  were  going  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  cottage,  she- 
was  about  to  step  forward,  when  she  heard  the  bark  of  the 
dog,  and  almost  as  if  he  had  sprung  from  the  ground, 
Gideon  Eolfe  stood  beside  the  carriage. 

"Ah,  here  is  someone,"  said  Stephen.  "Can  you  tell  u.s 
the  road  to  the  cottage  of  Gideon  Eolfe,  the  woodman,  my 
man?"  he  asked. 

"And  what  may  be  your  business  with  him  ?" 

"Why  do  you  ask,  my  good  man  ?"  he  replied. 

"Because  I  am  he  you  seek,"  said  Gideon. 

"You  are  Gideon  Eolfe  ?    How  fortunate." 

"That's  as  it  may  prove,"  said  Gideon,  coldly.  "What 
is  your  business  ?" 

"It  is  of  a  nature  which,  I  think,  had  better  be  stated  in  a 
more  convenient  spot.  Will  you  kindly  permit  me  to  enter 
your  cottage  and  rest  ?" 

'  Gideon  looked  searchingly  into  Stephen's  face  for  a  mo- 
ment that  seemed  an  age  to  Una,  then  nodded  curtly,  and 
said:  "Follow  me." 

"Will  you  not  ride?"  asked  Stephen,  suavely. 

But  Gideon  shook  his  head,  and  shouldering  his  ax, 
strode  in  front  of  the  horse,  and  Stephen  motioning  to 
the  driver,  the  carriage  followed. 

"A  charming  spot,  Mr.  Eolfe — charming!  "Bather 
shall  I  say,  retired,  if  not  solitary,  however." 

"Say  what  you  please,  sir,"  retorted  Gideon,  grimly  and 
calmly.  "I  am  waiting  to  learn  the  business  you  have  with 
me." 

"Mother,"  he  said — "this  lady  is  my  mother,  Mr.  Eolfe 
—I  think,  I  really  think  you  would  find  it  pleasant  and 
refreshing  on  the  bench  which  I  observed  outside  the  door.'" 

With  a  little  deprecatory  air  the  lady  got  up  and  in- 
stantly left  the  cottage. 

Then  Stephen's  manner  changed.  Leaning  forward  he 
fixed  his  gray  eyes  on  Gideon  Eolf e's  stern  face  and  said : 

"Mr.  Eolfe — my  name  is  Davenant " 

Gideon  started,  and,  with  a  muttered  oath,  raised  the  ax. 

Stephen's  face  turned  as  white  as  his  spotless  collar,  but 
he  did  not  shrink. 

"My  name  is  Davenant,"  he  repeated — "Stephen  Dave- 
nant. I  am  afraid  the  name  has  some  unpleasant  associa- 
tions attached  to  it.  I  beg  to  remind  you,  if  that  should  be 


80  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

the  case,  that  those  associations  are  not  connected  with  any 
fault  of  mine."' 

"Go  on.    Your  name  is  Stephen  Davenant  ? 

"Stephen  Davenant.  I  am  the  nephew  of  Squire  Dave- 
nant—Ralph  Davenant.  The  nephew  of  Ealph  Davenant. 
I  think  you  can  guess  my  business  with  you." 

"Do  you  come  from— him  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"In  a  certain  sense,  yes,"  he  said.  "Xo  doubt  ycu  have 
heard  the  sad  news.  My  uncle  is  dead." 

"Dead  !"  he  repeated  fiercely. 

"Dead.    My  uncle  died  three  days  ago." 

"Dead!"  repeated  Gideon,  not  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  had  lost  a  friend,  but  in  that  of  one  who  had  lost  an 
enemy. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  wiping  his  dry  eyes  with  his  spot- 
less handkerchief;  "my  poor  uncle  died  three  days  ago.  I 
am  afraid  I  have  not  broken  it  as  softly  as  I  should  have 
done.  You  knew  him  well  ?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  him  well." 

"Then  you  know  how  great  a  loss  the  county  has  suf- 
fered in " 

"Spare  your  fine  phrases.  Come  to  your  business  with 
me.  What  brings  you  here  ?" 

"I  am  here  in  consequence  of  a  communication  made  to 
me  by  my  uncle  on  his  death-bed.  Are  you  alone  ?" 

Gideon  waved  his  hand  with  passionate  impatience. 

"That  communication,"  Stephen  continued,  "concerns  a 
certain  young  lady " 

"Ee  told  you  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"My  uncle  told  me  that  I  should  find  a  young  lady,  in 
whose  future  he  was  greatly  interested,  in  the  charge  of  a 
certain  person  named  Gideon  Eolfe." 

"Well,  did  he  tell  you  any  more  than  that?" 
Stephen  made  a  gesture  in  the  negative. 
"So,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe,  "he  left  it  to  me  to  tell  the 
story  of  his  crime.     You  are  Ralph  Davenanfs  nephew. 
You  are  the  nephew  of  a  villain  and  a  scoundrel !" 

It  was  true,  then,  that  the  man  knew  nothing  of  the 

secret  marriage  of  Ralph  Davenant  and  Caroline  Hatfield. 

"A  scoundrel  and  a  villain!"  repeated  Gideon,  leaning 


WHO  WAS  THE  HE1K?  81. 

forward  and  clutching  the  table.  "You  say  that  he  told 
you  the  story  of  his  crime,  glossed  over  and  falsified. 
Hear  it  from  me.  Your  uncle  and  I  were  schoolfellows  and 
friends.  I  was  the  son  of  the  schoolmaster  at  Hurst. 
Your  uncle  left  school  to  go  to  college.  I  remained  at 
Hurst  in  my  father's  house.  I  could  have  gone  to  college 
also,  but  I  would  not  leave  Hurst,  for  I  was  in  love.  I 
loved  Caroline  Hatfield.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the 
gamekeeper  on  the  Hurst  estate,  and  we  were  to  be  mar- 
ried. Two  months  before  the  day  fixed  for  our  marriage 
your  uncle,  my  friend— rmy  friend! — came  home  to  spend 
the  vacation.  We  were  friends  still,  and  I — cursed  fool 
that  I  was — took  him  to  the  gamekeeper's  lodge  to  intro- 
duce him  to  my  sweetheart.  Six  weeks  afterward  he  and 
she  had  fled." 

Stephen  watched  him  closely,  his  heart  beating  wildly. 

"They  had  fled/'  continued  Gideon,  in  a  broken  voice. 
"My  life  was  ended  on  the  day  they  brought  me  the  news. 
I  left  Hurst  Leigh  and  came  here.  A  year  later  she  came 
back  to  me — came  back  to  me  to  die.  She  died  and  left 

me .  She  left  me  her  child.  I — I  loved  her  still  and 

swore  to  protect  that  child,  and  I  have  done  so.  There  is 
my  story.  What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"It  is  terrible,  terrible !"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  have  kept  my  vow.  Her  child  has  grown  up  ignorant 
of  the  shame  which  is  her  heritage.  Here,  buried  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest,  away  from  the  world,  I  have  kept  and 
guarded  her  for  her  mother's  sake.  There  is  the  story,  told 
without  gloss  or  falsehood.  What  have  you  to  say?" 

"You  have  discharged  your  self-appointed  trust  most 
nobly !  But — but  that  trust  has  come  to  an  end." 

"Who  says  so?" 

'•I  say  so.  You  have  done  your  duty — more  than  your 
duty — I  must  do  mine.  My  uncle,  on  his  deathbed,  be- 
queathed his  daughter  to  my  charge." 

"To  yours?" 

"To  mine,"  said  Stephen,  gravely. 

"Where  is  your  authority?" 

That  I  do  not  come  without  authority  is  proven  by  the 
JIKM-C  fact  of  my  presence  here  and  by  my  knowledge  of 
my  uncle's  secret.  No  one  but  yourself,  your  wife  and 
I  know  of  the  real  identity  of  this  girl.  It  was  my  uncle's 


82  OXLV  OXK  LOVE;  OR, 

wish  that,  the  story  of  her  birth  should  still  remain  a 
sec-rot— that  it  should  be  buried,  as  it  were,  in  his  grave. 
Whv  should  the  poor  girl  ever  learn  the  truth,  when  such 
knowledge  can  only  bring  her  shame  and  mortification?" 

"Grant  that,"  said  Gideon,  "where  could  she  better  be 
hidden  than  here?  Her  secret,  her  very  existence,  have 
been  concealed  from  the  world.'" 

"True,  but — but  the  future,  my  dear  sir — the  future! 
You  are  not  a  young  man — 

"I  am  still  young  enough  to  protect  her." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Rolfe,  you  may  live — you  look  as  if  you 
would — to  be  a  hundred;  you  have  discharged  your  self- 
imposed  task  most  nobly,  but  you  must  not  forget  that  it 
has  now  devolved  upon  one  who  is  bound  by  ties  of  blood  to 
fulfill  it,  if  not  so  well,  certainly  with  the  best  intentions. 
Mr.  Rolfe,  I  am  the  young  girl's  cousin." 

"You  speak  of  ties  of  blood;  say  rather,  the  ties  of 
shame  !  Suppose — I  say  suppose — that  I  refuse  to  deliver 
her  up  to  your  care?" 

"I  do  not  think  you  will  do  that.  You  forget  that,  after 
all,  we  have  little  choice  in  the  matter." 

Gideon  Rolfe  eyed  him  questioningly. 

"The  young  girl  is  now  of  age,  and " 

"Go  on." 

"And  supposing  that  you  were  to  refuse  to  hand  her  over 
to  my  charge,  I  should  feel  compelled  to  tell  the  story  of  her 
life,  and .  Pray — pray  be  calm.  I  beg  you  to  remem- 
ber that  I  am  not  here  of  my  own  desire ;  that  I  am  merely 
fulfilling  my  duty  to  my  uncle,  and  endeavoring  to  obey  his 
last  wishes.  I  do  not  blame  you  for  your  reluctance  to 
part  with  her.  It  does  you  credit,  my  dear  Mr.  Rolfe— 
infinite  credit.  But  duty— duty;  we  must  all  do  our  duty." 

"Has  anyone  of  your  name  ever  yet  done  his  duty  ?"  re- 
peated Gideon,  sternly. 

"For  my  part,  Mr.  Rolfe,  I  have  always  striven  to  do 

mine;  yea,  even  in  the  face  of  great  temptation  and  diffi- 

t  must  do  it  now.     After  all,  why  should  you 

t  my  uncle's  wish?     Consider,  she,  who  was  once  a 

nld,  is  now  a  woman.  Do  you  think  it  possible  to  keep 
r  imprisoned  in  this  wood  for  the  whole  of  her  days.?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  83 

Gideon  Rolfe  turned  toward  the  window.  For  the  first 
time  Stephen  had  found  a  weak  spot  in  his  armor.  IT  was 
true!  Already  she  was  beginning  to  pine  and  hunger  for 
the  world.  Could  he  keep  her  much  longer  ? 

"Come,"  said  Stephen,  quick  to  see  the  impression  ho 
had  made.  "Do  not  let  us  be  selfish;  let  us  think  of  her 
welfare,  as  well  as  our  own  wishes.  Candidly,  I  must  con- 
fess that  I  should  be  perfectly  willing  to  leave  her  in  her 
present  obscurity.'' 

Gideon  Eolfe  broke  in  abruptly. 

"Where  will  you  take  her  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"It  is  my  intention,"  he  said,  "to  place  her  in  my  moth- 
er's charge.  She  lives  in  London,  alone.  There  my  cousin 
will  find  a  loving  home  and  a  second  mother.  Believing 
that  you  would  naturally  have  some  reluctance  at  parting 
with  her,  not  knowing  with  whom  and  where  she  was  going, 
I  have  brought  my  mother  with  me." 

Gideon  glanced  at  the  quiet,  motionless  figure  seated  on 
the  bench  outside,  and  then  paced  the  room  again. 

"Does  she  know?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 

"She  knows  nothing,"  said  Stephen.  "My  mother  can 
trust  me  implicitly.  She  has  long  wanted  a  companion, 
and  I  have  told  her  that  I  know  of  a  young  girl  in  whom 
I  am  interested." 

"You  intend  to  keep  her  secret?"  said  Gideon. 

"Most  sacredly,"  responded  Stephen,  with  solemn 
earnestness. 

Gideon  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Stephen  rose  softly  and  watched  him  from  behind  the 
window  curtains  until  Gideon  had  vanished  amongst  the 
trees;  then  Stephen  went  out  and  smiled  down  upon  his 
mother  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  just  succeeded  in  ac- 
complishing some  great  work  for  the  good  of  mankind  at 
large. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  mother/'  he  said.    "I  have 


84 


OXLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 


been  making  some  arrangements  with  the  worthy  man,  her 

father." 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  with  the  nervous,  deprecatory 
expression  which  always  came  upon  her  face  when  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  her  son. 

"It  does  not  matter,  Stephen  :  I  am  glad  to  rest.  Where 
has  the  man  gone  ?  He — he — doesn't  he  look  rather  supe- 
rior for  his  station,  and  why  does  he  look  so  stern  and  for- 
bidding ?" 

"A  life  spent  in  solitude,  away  from  the  world,  has  made 
him  reserved  and  cold,"  replied  Stephen,  glibly,  "and,  of 
course,  he  feels  the  parting  from  his  daughter." 

"Poor  man — poor  girl !"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant. 

Stephen  looked  down  at  her  with  a  contemplative  smile, 
while  his  ears  were  strained  for  the  returning  footsteps  of 
Gideon  Rolfe. 

"Yours  is  a  sweetly  sympathetic  nature,  my  dear.  I  can 
already  foresee  that  the  'poor  girl'  will  not  long  need  any- 
one's sympathy.  You  are  already  prepared  to  open  your 
arms  and  take  her  to  your  heart.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up — just  as  if  she  wanted  to  see 
what  he  expected  of  her  to  say,  and  seeing  that  he  meant 
her  to  say  "yes,"  said  it. 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  a  young  girl — a  good 
young  girl — as  a  companion,  Stephen.  My  life  has  been 
very  lonely  since  you  have  been  away." 

"And  I  may  be  away  so  much.  But,  mother,  you  will 
not  forget  what  I  said  during  our  drive  ?  There  are  special 
reasons  why  the  girl's  antecedents  should  not  be  spoken  of. 
The  friend  who  interested  me  in  her  wishes  her  to  forget, 
if  possible,  everything  concerning  her  early  life." 

"I  understand,  Stephen." 

•  iT^n(*'  ky  tne  way?  ^°  n°t  allow  any  expression  of  aston- 
hment  to  escape  you  if,  when  you  see  her,  you  feel  aston- 
ished at  her  appearance  or  manner.  Remember  that  she 
has  spent  all  her  life  here,  buried  in  the  forest,  her  sole 
companions  a  woodsman  and  his  wife." 

Her  mother  and  father?"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 

said  her  mother  and  father,  did  I  not  ?     Just  so— her 

>ther  and  father.    Well,  we  must  not  expect  too  much. 

?r  all,  it  will  be  far  more  interesting  for  you  to  have 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  85 

a  fresh  and  unsophisticated  nature  about  you,  although  she 
may  be  rather  rough  and  rustic " 

"I  shall  be  quite  content  if  she  is  a  good  girl/' 

"Just  so.  Virtue  is  a  precious  gem  though  incased  in  u 
rough  casket." 

Gideon  Eolfe  had  returned,  but  not  alone.  Emerging 
from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees  was  what  looked  to  their 
astonished  and  unprepared  eyes  a  vision  of  some  wood 
nymph. 

Gideon  Rolfe  strode  forward,  his  face  set  hard  and  stern- 
ly cold,  and  as  he  reached  the  cottage  he  took  Una's  hand  in 
his,  and  looking  steadily  into  Stephen's  eyes,  said : 

"Mr.  Davenant,  I  have  informed  my  daughter  of  your 
mother's  offer  to  take  her  under  her  charge,  but  I  have 
asked  her  to  postpone  her  answer  until  she  saw  you." 

Stephen  bowed,  and  laid  his  white  hand  on  his  mother's 
arm. 

"Miss  Rolfe,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  in  which  paternal 
kindness  and  social  respect  were  delicately  blended,  "this 
lady  is  my  mother.  Like  most  mothers  whose  children 
have  flown  from  the  nest,  she  lives  alone  and  feels  her  soli- 
tude. She  is  desirous  of  finding  some  young  lady  who  will 
consent  to  share  it  with  her.  It  is  not  only  a  home  she 
offers  you,  but — I  think  I  may  add,  mother — a  heart." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  and  as  she  held  out 
her  hand  her  voice  trembled  and  a  tear  shone  in  her  eye. 

Una,  who  had  been  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  with 
the  breath  coming  in  little  pants  through  her  half  parted 
lips,  drew  near  and  put  her  hand  in  the  outstretched  one, 
but  the  next  moment  turned  and  clung  to  Gideon's  arm 
with  a  sudden  sob. 

"Oh,  father,  I  cannot  leave  you!"  she  murmured. 

Gideon  bent  his  head,  perhaps  to  hide  his  face,  which  was 
working  with  emotion. 

"Hush !  it  is  for  the  best.  Remember  what  I  have  said. 
You  wanted  to  see  the  world "  . 

"Yes — with  you1,"  said  Una,  audibly. 

"The  world  and  I  have  parted  forever,  Una." 

"But  shall  I  never  see  yon  again  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  we  shall  meet  now  and  again." 


Sfi 


OXLY  ONE  LOVE;  OK, 


"I  trust  Miss  Kolfe,  that  we  shall  wean  your  father  from 
his  long  seclusion.  You  must  be  the  magnet  to  draw  him 
from  his  retreat  into  the  busy  haunts  of  men." 

"You  will  come  and  see  me?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  Una.  Go  where  you  will,"  and  he  glanced  over 
her  head  at  Stephen,  "you  may  feel  that  I  am  watching 
over  you,  as  I  have  always  watched  and  guarded  you.  If 
any  harm  comes  to  you " 

"Harm  ?"  she  breathed,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with 
questioning  gaze. 

"Come,  Mr.  Rolfe,  you  musn't  alarm  your  daughter," 
said  Stephen,  softly.  ""She  will  think  that  the  world  is 
filled  with  lions  and  wolves  seeking  whom  they  may  devour. 
I  think  you  may  feel  safe  from  any  harm  under  my  moth- 
er's protection,  Miss  Kolfe." 

"Yes.  I  have  never  had  a  daughter.  If  you  come  you 
shall  be  one  to  me." 

"You  think  me  ungrateful?"  said  Una  to  her,  in  her 
simple,  frank  way. 

"No,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Davenant.  "I  think  you 
only  show  a  naturally  affectionate  heart.  You  have  never 
been  from  home  before." 

"Never,"  said  Una.     "Never  out  of  the  woods." 

"My  poor  child.  No,  I  do  not  think  you  ungrateful.  I 
like  to  see  that  you  feel  leaving  home  so  much.  For  you 
will  come,  will  you  not?  I  shall  be  disappointed  and 
grieved  if  you  do  not,  now  that  I  have  seen  you." 

"Now  that  you  have  seen  me,"  said  Una. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  For  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  love  you,  and 
I  hope  that  you  will  grow  fond  of  me." 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Una,  musingly.  "Yes,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause,  "I  shall  love  you." 

"Will  you  kiss  me,  my  dear,"  she  said;  and  Una  bent 
and  kissed  her. 

"And  now  that  you  think — that  you  are  sure  you  will 
like  me— you  will  come,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 

Una  looked  before  her  thoughtfully,  almost  dreamily,  for 
a  moment,  then  replied : 

"Yes,  my  father  wishes  me  to  go.  Why  does  he  wish 
o  go  into  the  world  he  hates  and  fears  so  much?  It 
>nly  the  other  day  that  he  warned  me  against  wishing 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  87 

for  it,  and  told  me  that  I  should  never  he  hnppy  if  I  left 
Warden.  Why  has  he  changed  so  suddenly  ?'' 

"I — I  think  it  must  have  heen  Stephen  who  persuaded 
him.  I  heard  them  talking  together." 

"Stephen — that  is  your  son,"«said  Una. 

"Yes,  he  is  my  son;  he  is  very  good  and  clever — so  very 
clever!  He  has  been  a  most  affectionate  son  to  me,  and 
has  never  caused  me  a  day's  uneasiness." 

"All  sons  are  not  so  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,  indeed,"  responded  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"Is  he  ill  ?"  asked  Una,  after  a  pause. 

"Ill !" 

"Because  he  is  so  pale,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Stephen  is  pale.  It  is  because  he  thinks  and 
reads  so  much,  and  then  he  is  in  great  trouble  now;  his 
uncle  died  three  days  ago." 

"Is  that  why  he  is  dressed  in  black — and  you,  too  ?  I 
am  very  sorry." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  "that  was 
very  nice  of  you  to  say  that.  I  can  see  you  have  a  kind 
heart.  Yes,  his  uncle  is  just  dead,  Mr.  Ealph  Davenant; — 
Squire  Davenant.  Why  did  you  start?" — for  Una  had 
started  and  turned  to  her  with  a  sudden  flash  of  intense 
interest  in  her  eyes — "did  you  know  him?  Ah,  no,  you 
could  not,  if  you  have  not  been  out  of  the  forest — how 
stfrange  it  seems  ! — but  you  have  heard  of  him,  perhaps  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  him." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Stephen  and  Gid- 
eon Rolf  e  came  out. 

The  usual  smile  sat  upon  Stephen's  face,  in  strange  con- 
trast to  the  stern,  set  look  on  his  companion's. 

Raising  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Davenant  as  he  approached,  Gid- 
eon put  his  hand  on  Una's  shoulder. 

"Go  indoors,  Una,  to  your  mother,"  he  said  quietly. 

Una  rose,  and  after  a  momentary  glance  at  each  of  their 
faces,  went  inside.  Stephen  opened  and  held  the  door  for 
her,  then  closed  it  and  came  back  to  the  others. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Rolfe  and  I  have  made  our  ar- 
rangements, and  he  agrees  with  me  that  it  would  be  wiser, 
now  that  the  news  is  broken  to  Miss  Rolfe,  for  her  to  ac- 
company you  back  to  town  this  afternoon." 


88  ONLY  OXK  LOVE:  OR, 

Mrs.  Davenant  nodded,  and  glanced  timidly  at  Gideon's 

stern  face.  . 

"We  have  won  Mrs.  Rolfe  over  to  our  side,  and  she  is 
already  making  the  few  preparations  necessary  for  Miss 
Rolfe's  journey." 

Gideon  Rolfe  inclined  his  head  as  if  to  corroborate  this, 
then  he  said : 

"Will  you  come  inside,  madam,  and  partake  of  some  re- 
freshment ?" 

"I  would  rather  wait  here.      Mr.  Rolfe,  I  hope  you  feel 
that,  in  trusting  your  daughter  to  my  charge,  that  she  will 
at  least  have  a  happy  home,  if  I  can  make  one  for  her  ?" 
"That  I  believe,  madam." 

"Yes,  I  have  quite  convinced  Mr.  Rolfe  that  the  change 
will  be  beneficial  to  Miss  Rolfe,  and  that  she  will  be  taken 
every  care  of.  I  suppose  you  are  quite  old  friends  already, 
eh,  mother?" 

"I  think  she  is  a  beautiful  girl  whom  one  could  not  help 
loving,"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  then  Una  and  Martha  came 
out.  Una  was  pale  to  the  lips,  the  other  was  red-eyed 
with  weeping,  and  her  tears  broke  out  afresh  when  Mrs. 
Davenant  shook  hands  with  her  and  assured  her  that  hei 
daughter  should  be  happy. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Martha.  "It's  what  I  said 
would  come  to  pass.  Gideon  couldn't  erpect  to  keep  her 
shut  up  here,  like  a  bird  in  a  cage,  forever  and  a  day.  It 
was  against  reason,  but  it  is  so  sudden,"  and  her  sobs  broke 
into  her  speech  and  stopped  her. 

Mrs.  Davenant's  eyes  were  wet,  and  she  glanced  at 
Stephen,  half  inclined  to  postpone  the  journey ;  but  Gideon 
Rolfe  had  called  the  carriage  to  the  door,  and  the  box  was 
already  on  the  seat. 

With  the  same   set   calm   which   he   had   maintained 
throughout,  Gideon  took  Una  in  his  arms,  held  her  for  a 
moment  and  whispering,  "Remember,  wherever  you  are  I 
am  watching  over  you !"  put  her  in  the  carriage  in  which 
Stephen  had  already  placed  his  mother. 
He,  too,  had  a  word  to  whisper.     It  was  also  a  reminder. 
'Remember,  mother,  not  another  word  of  the  past.     Her 
life  begins  from  today." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  89 

Then  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  aloud : 

"You  will  just  have  time  to  catch  the  train.     Good-lm-." 

With  the  most  dutiful  affection.,  he  kissed  his  mother, 
then  went  round,  and,  bare-headed,  offered  his  hand  to 
Una. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Rolfe,"  he  said.  "You  are  now  starting 
on  a  new  life.  No  one,  not  even  your  father,  can  more 
devoutly  wish  you  the  truest  and  fullest  happiness  than  I 
do." 

Una,  half -blinded  with  her  tears,  put  her  hand  in  his; 
but  almost  instantly  drew  it  away,  with  something  like  a 
shudder.  It  was  cold  as  ice. 

The  next  moment  the  carriage  started,  and  the  two  men 
were  left  alone. 

For  fully  a  minute  they  stood  looking  at  it,  till  it  had 
been  swallowed  up  by  the  shadows  of  the  trees ;  then  Gid- 
eon turned,  his  face  white  and  working. 

"Stephen  Davenant,"  he  said,  in  slow,  measured  tones, 
"one  word  with  you  before  we  part.  You  have  gained  your 
end — be  what  it  may;  I  say  for  your  sake,  let  it  be  for 
good ;  for  if  it  be  for  evil,  you  have  one  to  deal  with  who 
will  not  hold  his  hand  to  punish  and  avenge.  Rather  than 
let  her  know  the  heritage  of  shame  which  hangs  over  her,  I 
have  let  her  go.  If  you  value  your  safety,  guard  her,  for 
at  your  hands  I  require  her  happiness  and  well  being." 

Stephen's  face  paled,  but  the  smile  struggled  to  its  ac- 
customed place. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  began,  but  Gideon  stopped  him 
with  a  gesture. 

"Enough.  I  set  no  value  on  your  word.  There  is  no 
need  for  further  speech  between  us.  Prom  this  hour  our 
roads  lie  apart.  Take  yours,  and  leave  me  mine." 

"This  is  very  sad.  Well,  well ;  as  you  say,  I  have  gained 
my  end,  but,  as  I  would  rather  put  it,  I  have  done  my  duty, 
and  I  must  bear  your  ungrounded  suspicions  patiently. 
Good-bye,  my  dear  sir — good-bye." 

"I  have  sworn  never  to  touch  the  hand  of  a  Davenant  in 
friendship,"  he  said,  grimly.  "There  lies  your  path" — 
and  he  pointed  to  the  Wermesley  road — "mine  is  here,  for 
the  present." 

And  with  a  curt  nod,  he  turned  toward  the  cottage. 


90  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OB, 

With  a  gentle  sigh  and  shake  of  the  head,  Stephen,  after 
lingering  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  hoped  that  Gideon's  heart 
might  be  softened,  turned  and  entered  the  wood. 

Once  in  the  shadow  and  out  of  .sight,  the  smile  disap- 
peared, and  left  his  face  careworn,  restless  and  anxious. 

"Fate  favors  me,"  he  muttered.  "That  hoor  knows — 
guesses — nothing  of  the  truth.  I  never  thought  to  get  the 
girl  out  of  his  clutches  so  easily !  Xow  she  is  under  my 
watch  and  ken — I  hold  her  in  my  hand.  But — but" — he 
mused,  his  lips  twitching,  his  eyes  moving  restlessly  to  and 
fro — "what  shall  I  do  with  her  ?  Beautiful — she  is  lovely ! 
How  long  will  she  escape  notice  in  London?  Someone 
will  see  her — some  hot-headed  fool — and  fall  in  love.  She 
might  marry.  Ah !" 

And  he  stooped  amongst  the  brakes  and  ferns,  and  looked 
up,  with  a  sudden,  dull-red  flush  on  his  pale  cheek,  a  bright 
glitter  in  his  light  eyes,  while  a  thought  ran  like  lightning 
through  his  cunning  brain. 

"Marry  her !    Why— why  should  not  I  ?" 

An  answer  came  quickly  enough  in  the  remembrance  of 
the  pale  dark  face  of  Laura  Treherne,  the  girl  to  whom  he 
was  pledged. 

But  with  a  gesture  of  impatience  he  swept  the  obtrusive 
remembrance  aside. 

"Why  not?"  he  muttered.  "Then,  at  one  stroke,  I 
should  secure  myself.  By  Heaven — I  will !  I  will !" 

So  elated  was  he  by  the  thought  that  he  stopped  and 
leaned  against  a  tree  and  took  off  his  hat,  allowing  the  cool 
breezes  to  play  upon  his  white  forehead. 

"Beautiful,  and  the  real  heiress  of  Hurst  Leigh,"  he  mut- 
tered. "Why  should  I  not  ?  By  one  stroke  I  should  make 
myself  secure,  and  set  that  cursed  will  at  defiance,  let  it 
be  where  it  may!  I  will!  I  will!"  he  repeated  setting 
bM  teeth;  then,  as  he  put  on  his  hat,  he  smiled  pitifully 
and  murmured : 

"Poor  Laura,  poor  Laura !" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  91 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Una  saw  her  last  of  Warden  Forest  through  a  mist  of 
tears;  while  a  tree  remained  in  sight  her  face  was  turned 
toward  it,  and  in  silence  she  bade  farewell  to  the  leafy 
world  in  which  her  life  had  passed  with  so  much  unevent- 
fulness — in  silence  listened  to  the  soughing  of  the  breeze 
that  seemed  to  voice  her  a  sad  good-bye. 

Her  companion  sat  in  silence,  too,  holding  the  soft, 
warm  hand  which  clung  to  hers  with  an  eloquent  suppli- 
cation for  protection  and  sympathy. 

But  youth  and  tears  are  foes  who  cannot  abide  long  to- 
gether, and  by  the  time  the  little  railway  village  of  Werm- 
esley  was  reached,  Una's  eyes  were  full  of  interest  and  curi- 
osity. 

As  the  fly  rumbled  over  the  unkept  streets  toward  the 
station,  past  the  few  tame  shops  and  the  dead-and-alive 
hotel,  her  color  came  and  went  in  rapid  fluctuations. 

"Is — is  this  the  world  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  the  first  which 
Una  had  seen  on  the  thin,  pale  face.  She  had  yet  to  learn 
that  Mrs.  Davenant  never  smiled  in  her  son's  presence. 

"The  world,  my  dear?"  she  replied.  "Well,  yes;  but  a 
very  quiet  part  of  it." 

"And  yet  there  are  so  many  people  in  the  streets,  and — 
ah !"  she  drew  back  with  an  exclamation  as  the  train 
shrieked  into  the  station. 

Mrs.  Davenant  started — she  was  nervous  herself,  and 
had  not  yet  realized  that  she  had  for  companion  one  who 
was  as  ignorant  of  our  modern  high-pressure1  civilization 
as  a  North  American  Indian. 

"That  is  the  train;  don't  be  frightened,  my  dear,"  she 
said. 

"Forgive  me.  I  know  it  is  the  train — I  have  read 
about  it.  I  am  not  frightened,"  she  added,  quietly,  and 
with  a  touch  of  gentle  dignity  that  puzzled  Mrs.  Davenant. 

,"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  finding  fault,  or  chiding 
you,  it  is  only  natural  that  you  should  be  surprised,  but 
you  will  find  a  great  deal  more  to  be  surprised  at  when 
we  get  to  London." 

Una  inclined  her  head  as  sne  mentally  registered  a 


92  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

resolution  to  conceal,  at  any  cost,  any  surprise  or  alarm 
she  might  feel  on  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

Nevertheless,  she  kept  very  close  to  Mrs.  Davenant  as 
they  passed  to  the  train,  and  shrank  back  into  the  corner 
of  the  carriage  driven  there  by  the  stupid  stare  of  one  or 
two  of  the  passengers. 

"Now  we  are  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  gently. 
"We  shall  not  sleep  now  till  we  get  to  town." 

"To  London — we  are  going  to  London  ?''  asked  Una  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "That  is  where  I  live;  I 
live  in  a  great  square  at  the  West-end." 

"I  know  the  points  of  the  compass,"  said  LTna,  with  a 
smile;  "my  father  taught  me,"  and  she  sighed — "poor 
father !" 

"I  think  your  father  must  be  a  very  clever  man,  my 
dear.  He  appears  to  have  taught  you  a  great  deal — I 
mean" — she  hesitates — "you  speak  so  correctly/' 

"Do  I  ?"  said  Una.  "Yes,  my  father  is  very  clever.  He 
knows  everything." 

"It  is  very  curious,"  she  said.  "I  mean — I  hope  you 
won't  be  offended — but  men  in  his  position  are  not  gener- 
ally so  well  informed." 

"Are  they  not?"  said  Una,  quietly.  "I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  my  father  learned  all  he  knows  from  books." 

"And  taught  yon  in  the  same  way.  Tell  me  what  books 
you  have  read." 

Una  smiled  softly,  and  as  she  did  so,  Mrs.  Davenant 
started,  and  looked  around  at  her  with  something  like 
fright  in  her  grave,  still  eyes, 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Una. 

"No— nothing,"  replied  the  other.  "I — you  reminded 
me  of  somebody  when  you  laughed,  I  can't  tell  whom.  But 
the^  books,  you  were  going  to  tell  me  about  the  books." 

"I  can't  remember  all,"  said  Una,  and  then  she  men- 
tioned the  titles  of  some  of  the  well-bound  volumes  which 
stood  on  the  little  bookshelf  in  the  hut. 
Mrs.  Davenant  regarded  her  curiously. 

Those  are  all  books  of  a  world  that  existed  long  ago," 
she  said.    "You  have  never  pead  any  novels — any  novels 
•  of  present  day  life,?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR? 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Then  you  arc  absolutely  ignorant  oi'  life  as  it  is,';  said 
Mrs.  Davenant. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  assented  Una. 

"I  can  understand  now  how  useful  fiction  really  is," 
murmured  Mrs.  Davenant.  "It  is  by  it  alone  that  a  future 
age  will  understand  what  ours  is.  You  are  entering  upon 
some  strange  experiences,  Miss  Rolfe." 

Una  started;  the  name  was  so  unfamiliar  to  her  that 
she  hardly  recognized  it. 

"Please  don't  call  me  that,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on 
Mrs.  Davenant's  arm.  "My  name  is  Eunice — Una.  Call 
me  Una." 

"I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"You  have  promised  to  love  me,  you  know." 

"A  promise  easy  to  keep,  my  dear,"  she  said,  and  her 
eyes  grew  moist.  "I  little  thought  when  my  eon  Stephen 
telegraphed  to  meet  him  that  he  was  taking  me  to  a 
daughter." 

"Your  son  Stephen — he  sent  for  you !"  said  Una,  with 
frank  curiosity.  "How  did  he  know  of  my  existence  ?" 

"Through  some  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  much 
hesitation  and  nervous  embarrassment.  "My  son  is  a  very 
good  man,  and  always  interesting  himself  in  some  good 
cause  or  other — something  that  will  benefit  his  fellow 
creatures.  You — you  will  like  my  son  when  you  know 
more  of  him,"  she  added,  and  though  she  spoke  with  pride 
there  was  a  touch  of  something  like  fear  in  her  voice, 
which  always  came  when  she  mentioned  his  name  or  spoke 
of  his  goodness. 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  simply,  "I  will  for  your  sake." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"But  how,"  went  on  Una,  after  thinking  a  moment, 
"how  did  his  friend  know  anything  about  me  ?  Did  my 
father " 

"I  don't  know,  Una,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  nervously. 
"Stephen  doesn't  always  tell  me  everything;  you  see  he 
has  so  much  to  think  of,  and  just  now  he  is  in  great 
trouble,  you  know." 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  Una,  gently;  "and  he  had  not  time  to 


04  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

tell  you.  But  he  will.  I  am  sorry  he  is  in  such  trouble." 
Then  after  a  pause,  she  said:  "Are  you  rich?7' 

Mrs.  Davenant  started.  The  question,  so  unusual  and 
so  "strange,  bewildered  her  by  its  suddenness  and  its  frank- 
ness. 

"Eich,  my  dear?"  she  said.       "Yes — I  suppose  I  am 

rich." 

"And  he  is  rich  ?" 

"He  will  be,  perhaps ;  we  do  not  know  until  his  uncle's 
will  is  read." 

"I  know  what  a  will  is,"  said  Una,  with  a  smile, 
is  the  paper  which  a  man  leaves  when  he  dies,  saying  to 
whom  he  wishes  his  money  to  go.    And  Stephen— 

"You  should  say  Mr.  Stephen,  or  Mr.  Davenant,  my 
dear,"  she  said.  "I  don't  mind  your  calling  him  Stephen, 

but — but "      She  looked  round  in  despair.     How  was 

she  to  explain  to  this  frank,  beautiful  girl  the  laws  of 
etiquette?  "But  everyone  who  speaks  of  those  to  whom 
they  are  not  related  say  Mr.,  or  Mrs.,  or  Miss." 

"I  see,"  said  Una.  "Then  Mr.  Davenant  expects  to 
get  his  uncle's  money,  and  then  he  will  be  rich.  I  am  very 
glad.  And  he  does  not  live  in  the  same  house  with  you  ?" 
"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Davenant — and  surely  there  was 
something  like  a  tone  of  relief  in  her  voice — "no;  when 
he  is  in  London  he  lives  in  chambers  in  rooms  by  himself ; 
but  he  has  been  staying  at  Hurst  Leigh." 

"At  Hurst  Leigh !"  echoed  Una,  softly,  and  a  faint  color 
stole  over  her  face.  How  wonderful  it  was !  That  other 
— he  whose  face  was  always  with  her,  was  going  there ! 

"At  Hurst  Leigh,"  repeated  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Do  you 
know  it?" 

Una  shook  her  head  silently.  She  longed  to  ask  more, 
to  ask  if  Mrs.  Davenant  knew  the  youth  who  had  taken 
shelter  in  the  cottage,  but  she  simply  could  not.  Love  is 
a  wondrous"  schoolmaster — he  had  already  taught  her 
frank,  out-spoken  nature  the  art  of  concealment. 

"It  is  a  grand  place,"  continued  Mrs.  Davenant.  "A 
great,  huge  place,"  and  she  shivered  faintly,  "and— and 
if  Squire  Davenant  has  left  it  to  Stephen"  he  will  live 
there." 

"You  don't  like  it?"  said  Una,  with'  acute  intuition. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE  'i  95 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  unusual  earne.stnees. 
"No,  oh  no !  it  frightens  me.  I  was  never  there  but  oiroe, 
and  then  I  was  glad — very,  very  glad  to  get  away,  grand 
and  beautiful  as  it  was !" 

"But  why  ?"  asked  Una,  eagerly. 

"Because — have  you  never  heard  of  Ralph  Davenant  ?" 

Una  hesitated  a  moment.     She  had  heard  of  him. 

"He  was  a  wonderful  man,  but  terrible  to  me.  His  eyes 
looked  through  one,  and  then  he  had  been  so  wicked." 

She  stopped  short,  and  Una  sighed.  So  there  was  an- 
other person  who  was  wicked. 

"Why  are  men  so  wicked  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I — I — don't  know.  What  a  singular  question,"  said 
Mrs.  Davenant.  "No  one  knows.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
they  have  different  natures  to  ours.  But  you  need  not 
look  so  grieved,  my  dear,"  she  added,  with  a  little  smile, 
"you  need  not  know  any  wicked  men." 

"Who  can  tell?  One  does  not  know;  wicked  men  are 
just  like  the  others,  only  we  like  them  better." 

Mrs.  Davenant  stared  at  her,  and  utterly  overwhelmed  by 
the  strange  reply,  sank  into  her  corner  and  into  silence. 

The  panting  engine  tore  along  the  line,  and  presently 
the  clear  atmosphere  was  left  behind,  and  the  cloud  of 
smoke  which  hangs  over  the  Great  City  came  down  upon 
them  and  took  them  in,  and  infolded  them. 

To  Una's  amazement  the  train  seemed  to  glide  over  the 
tops  of  houses,  houses  so  thick  that  there  seemed  but  two, 
or  three  inches  between  them.  With  suppressed  excite- 
ment— she  had  resolved  to  express  no  surprise  or  fear — 
she  watched  through  the  window.  Sometimes  she  caught 
sight  of  streets  thronged  with  people,  and  with  commingled 
alarm  and  curiosity,  wondered  what  had  happened  to  draw 
them  all  together  so. 

She  would  not  ask  Mrs.  Davenant,  for  wearied  by  her 
double  journey,  she  was  leaning  back  with  closed  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  train  stopped — stopped  amidst  the  noise 
and  confusion  of  a  large  terminus — Mrs.  Davenant  woke, 
a  porter  came  to  the  door,  received  instructions  as  to  the 
luggage  and  handed  them  out. 

Notwithstanding  her  resolution,  Una  felt  herself  turn- 
ing pale. 


%  ONLY  LLNE  LOVE;  OK, 

From  Warden  Forest  to  a  London  railway  station. 

"Keep  close  to  mo.  dear,"  said  -Mrs.  Davcnant,  who 
seemed  only  nervous  and  helpless  in  her  son's  presence. 
"Come,  there  is  a  cab." 

In  silence  Una  followed.  Men — and  women,  too, — 
turned  to  look  at  the  tall,  graceful  figure  in  its  plain  white 
dress,  and  stared  at  the  lovely  face,  with  its  half-fright- 
ened, half-curious,  downcast  eyes,  and  Una  felt  the  eyes 
fixed  on  her. 

"Why — why  do  they  look  at  me  so?"  she  asked,  when 
they  had  entered  the  cab. 

Mrs.  Davenant  regarded  her  with  a  smile,  and  evaded 
the  frank,  open  eyes.  Was  it  possible  that  the  girl  was 
ignorant  of  her  marvelous  beauty? 

"People  in  London  always  stare,  my  dear  Una,"  she 
replied,  "and  they  see  that  you  are  strange." 

"It  is  my  dress,"  said  Una,  who  had  been  looking  out 
of  the  window  at  some  of  the  fashionably-attired  ladies. 
"It  is  different  to  theirs.  See — look  at  that  lady !  Why 
does  she  wear  so  long  a  dress?  she  has  to  hold  it  up  with 
one  hand." 

"It  is  your  dress,  no  doubt,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "We 
must  alter  it  when  we  get  home." 

The  cab  rolled  into  the  street,  and  Una  was  rendered 
speechless. 

But  for  her  resolve  she  would  have  shrank  back  into  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  cab.  The  number  of  people,  the 
noise,  alarmed  her,  and  yet  she  felt  fascinated. 

Were  all  the  people  mad  that  they  hurried  on  so  with 
such  grave  and  pre-occupied  faces.     She  had  never 
her  father  hurry  unless  he  had  cut  down  a  tree  that  mvl 
been  struck  by  lightning,  and  which  might  injure  others 
in  its  fall  unless  cut  down  with  greatest  care. 

Presently  they  passed  into  one  of  the  leading  thorough- 
fares, already  lit  up,  its  shops  gleaming  brightly  with  UK 
light,  its  ceaseless  line  of  cabs,  and  omnibuses,  and 
carriages. 

At  last,  when  her  eyes  were  weary  with  looking,  she  mur- 
mured: ^  'This— this— is  the  world  then  at  last." 

••^  es,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  a  sigh.  "This  is  the 
world,  Una !" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  9? 

"And  are  those  palaces !"  asked  Una,  as  they  passed 
through  the  West  End  streets  and  squares. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant;  "they  are  only  houses,  in 
which  rich  people  dwell,  as  you  would  call  it." 

"And  the  trees  !  Are  there  no  trees  ?"  asked  Una,  with, 
for  the  first  time,  a  sigh. 

"Not  here,  dear.  There  are  some  in  the  parks ;  some  even 
in  the  middle  of  the  city  itself.  You  will  miss  your  trees, 
Una." 

"Yes,  I  shall  miss  my  trees.  But  this — this  world  seems 
so  large;  I  thought  that " 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  amused  with  her  bewilder- 
ment. 

"I  thought  that  people  in  the  world  knew  each  other; 
but  that  is  impossible." 

And  she  sighed,  as  she  thought  that,  after  all,  now  that 
she  was  in  the  world,  she  vfas  no  nearer  that  one  being  who, 
for  her,  was  the  principal  person  in  it. 

"Very  few  people  know  each  other,  Una.  It's  a  big 
world,  this  London.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  be 
happy?" 

Una  turned  to  her  with  a  look  upon  her  face  that  would 
have  melted  a  sterner  heart  than  Mrs.  Davenant's. 

"I  shall  be  happy,  if  you  will  love  me,"  she  said. 

Something  in  the  frank,  simple  reply  made  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant tremble.  What  had  she  undertaken  in  the  charge  of 
this  simple,  pure-natured  girl,  whose  beauty  caused  people 
to  turn  and  stare  at  her,  and  whose  innocence  was  that  of 
a  child? 

Through  miles  and  miles  of  streets,  as  it  seemed  to  Una, 
the  cab  made  its  slow,  rumbling  way;  houses,  that  were 
palaces  in  her  eyes,  flitted  past ;  and  at  last  they  stopped 
before  a  palace,  as  it  seemed  to  Una,  in  a  quiet  square. 

The  door  of  the  house  opened,  and  a  servant  came  out 
and  opened  the  cab  door. 

In  silent  wonderment  Una  entered  the  hall,  lit  with  its 
gas-lamps  and  lined  with  flowers,  and  followed  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant into  what  was  really  the  drawing-room  of  a  house  in 
Walmington  Square;  but  which  seemed  to  Una  to  be  the 
principal  apartment  in  some  enchanted  castle. 

But  true  to  her  resolve,  she  stood  calm  and  silent,  feel- 


98  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

ing,  rather  than  seeing,  that  the  eyes  of  the  servant  were 
fixed  upon  her  with  curious  interest. 

"Come  upstairs,  Una,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  and 
Una  followed  her  into  another  fairy  chamber.  Flowers,  of 
which  Mrs.  Davenant,  like  most  nervous  persons,  was  in- 
ordinately fond,  seemed  everywhere ;  they  lined  the  stair- 
case and  "the  landing,  and  bloomed  in  every  available  cor- 
ner. 

Mrs.  Davenant  entered  her  own  room,  then  opened  a 
door  into  an  adjoining  one. 

"This  is  your  room,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "If — if — you 
like  it- 

"Like  it !"  said  Una,  with  open  eyes  and  beating  heart. 
"Is — is  this  really  mine  ?"  and  she  looked  round  the  dainty 
room  with  incredulous  admiration. 

"If — if  you  like  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 
"How  could  I  do  otherwise?       It  is  too  beautiful  for 
me— 

"I  don't  think  anything  could  be  too  beautiful  for  you, 
Una,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  a  significance  that  was 
entirely  lost  on  Una.  "If  there  is  anything  you  want — I 
can't  give  you  any  trees,  you  know." 

"I  shan't  want  trees  while  the  flowers  are  here.  It  is 
nothing  but  flowers." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  meekly. 
"You  will  hear  a  bell  ring  in  half  an  hour ;  come  to  me 
then,  I  shall  wait  in  the  next  room  for  you.  I  will  not  lock 
the  door,"  and  she  left  her. 

Una  felt  dazed  and  stunned  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
she  made  what  preparations  were  possible.  She  chose 
from  her  box,  which  had  been  conveyed  to  her  room  by 
some  invisible  agency  apparently,  a  plain  muslin  dress,  and, 
more  by  instinct  than  any  prompting  of  vanity,  fastened 
a  rose  in  her  hair. 

She  had  scarcely  completed  her  simple  toilet  when  the 
bell  rang,  and  she  went  into  the  next  room. 

A  maid  servant— Una  noticed  that  it  was  not  the  one 
who  had  opened  the  door— was  in  attendance  upon  Mrs. 
Davenant,  and  dropped  a  courtesy  as  Mrs.  Davenant  said, 
in  her  nervous,  hesitating  fashion : 
"This  is  Miss  Rolfe,  Jane  " 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  99 

Una  smiled,  and  was  about  to  hold  out  her  hand,  hut 
stopped,  seeing  no  movement  of  a  similar  kind  on  the  part 
of  the  neatly-dressed  girl. 

"Jane  is  my  own  maid,  Una,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "She 
will  attend  to  you  when  you  want  her." 

Jane  dropped  another  courtesy,  but  Una  detected  a 
glance  of  curiosity  and  scrutiny  at  the  plain  white  muslin. 

"Come,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  "let  us  go  down.  Dinner 
is  ready,"  and  she  led  the  way  down-stairs. 

Another  fairy  apartment  broke  upon  Una's  astonished 
vision  as  they  entered  the  dining-room. 

Small  as  the  houses  are  in  Walmington  Square,  Una, 
accustomed  only  to  the  small  room  in  the  hut,  thought  that 
this  dining-room  was  large  enough  to  be  the  banquet  hall  of 
princes. 

But,  whatever  surprise  Una  felt,  she,  mindful  of  her  re- 
solve, concealed. 

Not  even  the  maid  in  waiting  could  find  anything  to 
condemn.  When  she  went  down-stairs  her  verdict  was 
favorable. 

"Whoever  she  is,"  she  said,  "she's  a  lady.  But  where  on 
earth  she  comes  from,  goodness  only  knows.  A  plain  mus- 
lin dress  that  might  have  come  out  of  the  ark." 

Dinner  was  over  at  last.  A  "last"  that  seemed  to  Una 
an  eternity.  Mrs.  Davenant  rose  and  beckoned  her  to  fol- 
low, and  they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  Una?" 

"No,"  said  Una,  thinking  of  her  long  wanderings  in 
Warden  Forest,  "not  tired  at  all,  but  very  surprised." 

"Surprised  ?"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  questioningly. 

"Yes.  Do  all  the  people  in  London  live  like  this — in 
such  beautiful  houses,  with  people  to  wait  upon  them,  and 
with  so  many  things  to  eat,  and  with  such  pretty  things 
in  the  houses  ?" 

"Not  all,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  watching  the  tall,  grace- 
ful figure  as  it  moved  to  and  fro — "not  all.  But  it  would 
take  too  long  to  explain.  You  think  these  are  pretty 
things ;  what  will  you  say  when  you  see  the  great  sights — 
sights  which  we  Londoners  think  nothing  of  ?" 

Una  did  not  answer;  she  had  been  looking  round  the 
room  at  the  pictures,  mostly  portraits,  on  the  walls. 


100  ONLY  0X1-  LOVE;  01?, 

"Arc  those  picture?  of  friends  of  yours?''  slip  said. 
'•'Who  is  that ';" 

"That?  Tliat  is  the  portrait  of  a  man  I  was  speaking 
of  in  the'  train.  That  is  Ralph— Squire  Davenant— when 
he  was  a  young  man." 

It  was'  a  portrait  of  Ralph  Davenant  in  his  best — and 

worst days.  It  had  been  painted  when  men  wore  their 

hair  long/ and  brushed  from  their  foreheads.  One  hand, 
white  as  the  driven  snow,  was  thrust  in  his  breast,  the  other 
held  a  riding-whip. 

Una  looked  at  it  long  and  earnestly,  and  Mrs.  Davenant, 
impressed  by  her  long  silence,  rose  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  Ralph  Davenant.  It  was  paint- 
ed when  he  was  about  your  age,  my  dear.  Ah " 

"What  is  the  matter  ?" 

Mrs.  Davenant,  pale  and  excited,  took  up  a  hand-mirror 
from  one  of  the  tables  and  held  it  in  front  of  Una, 

"Look !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Well  ?"  she  said. 

"Well?"  echoed  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Don't  you  see?  Look 
again.  The  very  image  !  It  is  himself  come  to  life  again ; 
it  is  Ralph  Davenant  turned  woman !"  she  exclaimed. 

And  before  Una  could  glance  at  the  glass  a  second  time 
Mrs.  Davenant  threw  it  aside. 

"Ana  I  so  like?"  said  Una,  with  a  smile.  "How  mys- 
terious !  And  that  is  so  beautiful  a  face." 

"Beautiful  eyes,  and  you  are "  said  Mrs.  Davenant, 

but  stopped  in  time,  warned  by  Una's  frank,  questioning 
gaze.  "If  yon  like  to  look  at  portraits,"  she  said,  "there  is 
an  album  there ;  look  over  that." 

Una  took  up  the  album  and  turned  over  its  pages ;  sud- 
denly she  stopped,  and  the  color  flew  to  her  face. 

With  unconcealed  eagerness  she  came  toward  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant with  the  open  album  in  her  hand. 

<|Look  r  she  said ;  "who  is  that  ?" 

"That,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  peering  at  it,  "that  is 
— Jack  Newcombe." 

/'Jack  Newcombe,"  said  Una,  breathlessly.  "You  know 
him  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  a  sigh.  "Poor  Jack! 
Shut  the  book,  my  dear." 


WHO  WAS  Tllti  HUlIl?  10 L 

"Why  do  you  say  'Poor  Jack?'  "  said  Una,  with  a  hollow 
look  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"Because — because  he  is  a  wicked  young  man,  my  dear/' 
said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Poor  Jack !" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Amidst  a  profound  silence  Jack  walked  slowly  and  quiet- 
ly out  of  the  house.  There  was  no  anger  in  his  heart 
against  the  old  man  whose  favorite  he  had  once  been — for 
the  moment  there  was  scarcely  any  anger  against  Stephen ; 
surprise  and  bewilderment  overwhelmed  every  other  feel- 
ing. 

He  had  not  expected  a  large  sum  of  money — had  cer- 
tainly not  expected  the  Hurst;  and  but  for  the  words 
spoken  by  the  dying  man,  he  would  not  have  expected  any- 
thing at  all,  after  having  offended  him  in  the  matter  of 
the  money-lenders  and  the  post-obit.  But  most  assuredly 
the  squire  had  intimated  that  there  would  be  something 
— something,  however  small. 

And  now  he  was  told  that  there  was  nothing,  that  his 
name  was  not  even  mentioned. 

Apart  from  any  mercenary  consideration,  Jack  was  cut 
up  and  disappointed ;  if  there  had  been  a  simple  mourning 
ring,  a  few  of  the  old  guns  out  of  the  armory — anything 
as  a  token  of  the  old  man's  forgiveness,  he  would  have 
been  satisfied ;  but  nothing,  not  one  word. 

Then,  again,  he  could  not  understand  it,  near  his  end  as 
he  was  when  he  spoke  to  him.  The  squire  was  as  sane  and 
clear-headed  as  he  had  been  at  any  time  of  his  life,  or  at 
least  so  it  seemed  to  Jack ;  and  he  certainly  had  given  him 
to  understand  that  he  had  left  him  some  portion  of  his 
immense  wealth. 

It  was  another  link  in  the  chain  of  mysteries  which  had 
seemed  to  coil  around  Jack  since  he  started  from  London. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  he  made  his  way  back  to  the 
"Bush,"  and  began  to  pack  up  the  small  portmanteau 
which  had  been  sent  from  town. 

Hurst  Leigh  was  no  place  for  him;  every  minute  he 


102  ONLY  OXJ-:  LOV1-:.;  OK, 

remained  in  it  seemed  intolerable  to  him.  He  would  go 
straight  back  to  town  by  the  next  train. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him,  and  he  paused  in  his 
task  of  packing  the  portmanteau,  an  operation  which  he 
reduced  to  its  simplest  by  thrusting  in  anything  that 
came  first  and  jamming  it  clown  tight  with  his  fist;  he 
stopped  and  looked  up  with  a  red  flush  on  his  handsome 
face.  Why  shouldn't  he  go  to  Warden  Forest  on  his  way 
back? 

In  a  moment,  the  idea  thrilled  him  with  the  delight  of 
anticipation,  the  next,  a  shade  came  over  his  brow.  Why 
shouldn't  he  ?  Eather,  why  should  he  ?  What  was  the  use 
of  his  going?  If  he  had  no  business  there  before,  he  had 
less  excuse  now.  He  was  next  door  to  a  beggar — and 

Realizing  for  the  first  time  the  blow  that  had  been  dealt 
him  by  the  squire's  neglect,  he  continued  at  the  jamming 
process,  jumped  and  kicked  at  the  portmanteau  till  it 
consented  to  be  locked,  and  then  went  down  to  the  bar  and 
called  fo»  his  bill. 

There  were  several  people  hanging  about — a  funeral 
Is  a  good  excuse  for  a  holiday  in  a  country  village — but 
Jack,  in  his  abstraction,  scarcely  noticed  the  little  group  of 
men  who  sat  and  stood  about,  and  merely  nodded  in  re- 
sponse to  the  respectful  and  kindly  greetings. 

"But,  Mr.  Jack,"  said  Jobson,  with  a  deeply  respectful 
air  of  surprise,  "you  don't  think  of  going  right  away  at 
once,  sir?" 

"Yes,  I'm  off,  Jobson,"  said  Jack.  "What' s  the  next 
train?" 

"To  London?"  said  a  dry,  thin  voice  behind  him;  and 
Jack  turned  and  saw  Mr.  Hudsley's  clerk—old  Skettle. 
"There's  no  train  to  London  till  seven  o'clock;  there's  a 
train  to  Arkdale  in  an  hour,  but  it  stops  there." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  to  Arkdale;  and,  by  the 
way,  Jobson,  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  the  port- 
manteau ;  send  it  on  bv  rail  to  my  address— Spider  Court, 
the  Temple,  you  know." 

«.  J^?I°T  touched  his  caP,  and  while  he  was  making  out 
the  bill  Jack  lit  his  pipe  and  paced  up  and  down,  his  hands 
s  pockets,  the  knot  of  men  watching  him  out  of  the 
corners  of  their  eyes  with  sympathetic  curiosity. 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  103 

Jack  paid  the  bill — so  moderate  a  one  that  he  capped 
it  with  half  a  sovereign  over;  and  with  a  "good-day"  all 
round,  started  off.  He  had  not  got  further  than  the  sign- 
post, when  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm,  and,  turning,  saw 
that  old  Skettle  had  followed  him. 

"Halloa,"  said  Jack,  in  his  blunt  way,  "what's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  at  him  from  under  his  wrinkled 
lids,  and  fumbled  at  his  mouth  in  a  cautious  sort  of  a  way. 

"I'm  very  sorry  things  have  gone  on  so  crooked  up  at 
the  Hurst,  Master  Jack,"  he  said,  respectfully. 

"But  not  more  sorry  than  I  am,  Skettle,  thank  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  rather  unexpected,  Master  Jack,"  he 
continued,  his  small,  keen  eyes  fixed,  not  on  Jack,  but  on 
his  second  waistcoat-button,  counting  from  the  top. 

"Well,  yes,  it  is,"  said  Jack,  tugging  at  his  mustache. 
"Very  much  so.  I've  got  a  hit  in  the  bread-basket  this 
time,  Skettle,  and  I'm  on  my  back  again." 

Old  Skettle  looked  a  keen  glance  at  the  handsome  face 
and  frank  eyes  that  were  looking  rather  ruefully  at  the 
ground. 

"Hitting  below  the  belt  is  not  considered  fair,  is  it,  Mas- 
ter Jack?"  he  asked. 

"Eh,  what  ?"  said  Jack,  who  had  not  been  paying  much 
attention.  "No,  according  to  the  rules;  but  what  do  you 
mean  by  the  question  ?  You  are  always  such  a  mysterious 
old  idiot,  you  know.  You  can't  help  it,  I  suppose." 

Old  Skettle  smiled,  if  the  extraordinary  contortion  of 
the  wrinkled  face  could  be  called  by  so  flattering  a  desig- 
nation. 

"I've  seen  such  mysterious  things  since  I  first  went  into 
Mr.  Hudsley's  office  to  sweep  the  floor " 

"Now,  then,"  said  Jack,  "none  of  that  game ;  going  into 
the  old  story,  which  I  have  heard  a  hundred  times,  of  how 
you  went  as  an  office  boy,  and  have  risen  to  the  proud 
position  of  confidential  clerk.  You're  like  one  of  the  old 
fellows  in  the  play,  who  draws  a  chair  up  to  the  footlights, 
and  says,  'It's  seven  long  years  ago '  and  the  people  be- 
gin to  clear  out  into  the  refieshment  bar,  and  wait  there 
till  he's  done.  Where  were  you?  Oh,  'mysterious  experi- 
ences.' Well,  go  on." 


104  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OE, 

But  old  Skettle  had,  apparently,  nothing  to  say ;  he  had, 
while  Jack  had  been  speaking,  changed  his  mind. 

"I  beg  pardon  for  stopping  you,  Master  Jack,"  he  said. 
"I  felt  I  couldn't  let  you  go  out  of  the  old  place  without 
expressing  my  sympathy." 

"Thanks,  thanks/'  said  Jack,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"You're  one  of  the  right  sort,  Skettle,  and  so's  Hudsley. 
I  believe  he's  sorry,  too.  Looks  a  little  puzzled,  too.  Puz- 
zled isn't  the  word  for  what  I  feel.  I've  got  the  sensa- 
tion one  experiences  when  he's  been  sitting  through  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  melo-dramas.  Not  even  a  mourning- 
ring,  or  a  walking-stick.  Poor  Squire — well,  I  forgive 
him.  He  had  a  right  to  do  what  he  liked  with  his  own." 

"Just  so,  Master  Jack,  but  it's  hard  for  you,"  said 
Skettle.  "Not  a  mourning-ring.  By  the  way,  sir,"  and 
something  like  a  blush  crept  over  his  wrinkled  face.  "If 
— if  you  should  be  in  want  of  a  little  money " 

Jack  stared,  then  laughed  grimly. 

"Well,  you  certainly  must  be  mad,  Skettle,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "Want  money!  When  didn't  I  want  it?  But 
don't  you  be  idiot  enough  to  lend  me  any.  It  would  be 
a  jolly  bad  speculation,  old  fellow.  There  is  not  a  Jew  in 
London  would  take  my  paper.  No,  Skettle,  it  would  be 
downright  robbery,  and  I  don't  think  I  could  rob  you,  you 
know." 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  you  swam  across  the  mill- 
pond,  and  fished  my  little  boy  out,  Master  Jack  ?" 

"You  take  care  I  shan't  forget  it,  Skettle,"  said  Jack, 
•with  a  smile.  "It  was  a  noble  deed,  wasn't  it?  Every 
time  you  mention  it,  I  try  to  feel  like  a  hero,  but  it  won't 
come.  How  is  little  Ned?" 

"He's  well,  sir;  he's  in  London  now,  working  his  way  up. 
He  d  have  been  in  the  church-yard  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you." 

"Why,  Skettle,  this  is  worse  than  "Twas  seven  Ion? 

years  ago !' "  exclaimed  Jack. 

"On  that  day,  Master  Jack,  I  swore  that  if  ever  a  time 
ime  vhen  Ida  chance  of  serving  you,  I'd  do  it.     It  did 

not  seem  very  likely  then,  for  we  all  thought  you'd  be  the 

next  squire;  but  now,  Master  Jack,  I  should'  be  grateful 

if  you  d  borrow  ten  pounds  of  me," 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  105 

"Nonsense,"  cried  Jack.  "Don't  be  an  idiot,  Skcltle. 
You  a  lawyer!  why,  you're  too  soft  for  anything  but  a 
washerwoman.  There,  good-bye;  remember  me  to  little 
Ned  when  you  write,  and  tell  him  I  hope  he'll  grow  up  a 
little  harder  than  his  father.  Good-bye,"  and  he  shook 
the  thin,  skinny  claw  heartily. 

Old  Skettle  stood  and  looked  after  him,  his  right  hand 
fumbling  in  his  waistcoat  pocket;  and  when  Jack  had  got 
quite  out  of  sight  he  pulled  the  hand  out,  and  with  it  a 
small  scrap  of  paper  with  a  few  words  written  on  it,  and 
a  seal.  It  was  just  such  a  scrap  of  paper  which  might 
have  been  torn  from  a  letter,  and  the  seal  was  the  Dave- 
nant  seal,  with  its  griffin  and  spear  plainly  stamped. 

Old  Skettle  looked  at  it  a  moment  curiously,  then  shook 
his  head. 

"No,  I  was  right  after  all  in  not  giving  it  to  him;  it 
may  be  nothing — nothing  at  all.  And  yet — -it's  the 
squire's  handwriting,  for  it's  his  seal,  and  what  was  it 
lying  outside  the  terrace  for?  Where's  the  other  part  of 
it,  and  what  was  the  other  part  like?  I'll  keep  it.  I 
don't  say  that  there's  any  good  in  it,  but  I'll  keep  it. 
Not  a  mourning-ring  or  a  walking-stick !  All — house, 
lands,  money — to  Mr.  Stephen,  with  the  sneaking  face  and 
the  silky  tongue.  Poor  Master  Jack !  I — I  wish  he'd 
taken  that  ten-pound  note;  it  burns  a  hole  in  my  pocket. 
Not — a — mourning-ring,"  he  muttered.  "It's  not  like  the 
squire,  for  he  was  fond  of  Master  Jack,  and  if  I'm  not 
half  the  idiot  he  called  me.,  the  old  man  hated  Mr.  Stephen. 
1  seem  to  feel  that  there's  something  wrong.  I'll  keep  this 
bit  of  paper;"  and  he  restored  the  scrap  to  its  place  and 
returned  to  the  "Bush"  with  as  much  expression  on  his  face 
aa  one  might  expect  to  see  on  a  blank  skin  of  parchment. 

Jack  was  more  moved  than  he  would  have  liked  to  ad- 
mit by  old  Skettle' s  sympathy  and  offer  of  assistance,  and 
in  a  softened  mood,  produced  by  the  little  incident,  sat  and 
smoked  his  pipe  with  a  lighter  spirit. 

After  all  he  was  young,  and — and — well,  things  might 
turn  up;  at  any  rate,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  he 
could  earn  his  living  at  driving  a  coach-and-four,  or,  say, 
as  a  navvy. 

"I  shouldn't  make  a  bad  light  porter,"  he  mused,  "only 


106  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

there  arc  no  light  porters  nmv.  I  wonder  what  will  be- 
come of  me.  Auvhow,  I'd  rather  live  on  an  Abernethy 
biscuit  a  day  than  take  a  penny  from  Stephen  or  borrow 
ten  pounds  from  Skettle.  Stephen,  Squire  of  Hurst 
Leigh!  He'll  make  a  funny  squire.  I  don't  believe  he 
knows  a  pheasant  from  a  barn-door  fowl,  or  a  Berkshire 
pig  from  a  pump-handle.  I  should  have  made  a  better 
squire  than  he.  Xever  mind;  it's  no  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk!" 

Jack  was  certainly  not  the  man  to  cry  over  milk  spilt 
or  strewn,  and  long  before  the  train  had  reached  Arkdale 
he  had  forgotten  his  ill-luck  and  the  mystery  attending  the 
will,  and  all  his  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the  beautiful  girl 
who  dwelt  in  a  woodman's  hut  in  the  midst  of  Warden 
Forest. 

Forbidden  fruit  is  always  the  sweetest,  and  Jack  felt 
that  the  fruit  was  forbidden  here.  What  on  earth  busi- 
ness had  he,  a  ruined  man,  to  be  lounging  about  Warden, 
or  any  other  forest,  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  sight  of,  or  a 
few  words  with,  a  girl,  whom,  be  she  as  lovely  as  a  peri, 
•could  be  nothing  to  him?  What  good  could  he  do?  On 
the  contrary,  perhaps,  a  great  deal  of  harm;  for  ten  to 
one  the  woodman  would  cut  up  rough,  and  there  would  be 
a  row. 

But  he  felt,  somehow,  that  he  had  made  a  promise,  and 
promises  were  sacred  things  to  Jack — excepting  always 
promises  to  pay — and  a  row  had  rather  a  charm  for  him. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  train  drew  up  at  Arkdale  Sta- 
tion, he  had  quite  resolved  to  wait  until  the  London  train 
came  up,  and  as  such  resolutions  generally  end,  it  ended 
in  giving  up  the  idea  and  starting  for  Warden. 

Jack  was  not  sentimental.  Men  with  good  appetites 
and  digestions  seldom  are;  but  his  heart  beat  as  he  entered 
the  charmed  center  of  the  great  elms  and  oaks  which 
Ringed  the  forest,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  seemed  full 
of  a  strange  fascination. 

"I  wonder  what  she  will  say,  how  she  will  look?"  he 

kept  asking  himself.     "I'd  walk  a  thousand  miles  to  hear 

her  voice  to  look  into  her  eyes.     Oh,  I'm  a  worse  idiot 

than  old  Skettle!    What  can  her  eyes  and  her  voice  he  to 

By  Jove,  though,  I  might  turn  woodman   and— 


WHO  WAS  THE  HE1K?  107 

and "  marry  her,  he  was  going  to  say,  but  the  thought 

seemed  so  bold,  so — well,  so  coarse  in  connection  with  such 
a  beautiful  person,  that  Jack  actually  blushed  and  frowned 
at  his  effrontery. 

He  found  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  way,  and 
strode  along  at  a  good  pace,  which,  however,  grew  slower 
as  he  neared  the  clearing  in  which  stood  Gideon  Rolfe's 
cottage,  and  just  before  he  emerged  from  the  wood  into 
it  he  stopped,  and  felt  with  a  faint  wonder  that  his  heart 
was  beating  fast. 

It  was  a  new  sensation  for  Master  Jack,  and  it  upset 
him. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  said ;  "I  musj;  keep  cool.  A  child 
would  get  the  better  of  me  while  I  am  like  this;  and  I 
mustn't  forget  I've  got  to  face  that  wooden-faced  wood- 
man. Courage,  my  boy,  courage  !" 

And  with  a  resolute  front  he  stepped  into  the  clearing. 

Yes,  there  was  the  cottage,  but  why  on  earth  were  the 
shutters  up. 

With  a  strange  misgiving  he  walked  up  to  the  door  and 
knocked. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again  and  again — 
still  no  answer. 

Then  he  stepped  back  and  looked  up  at  the  chimney. 
There  was  no  smoky  trail  rising  through  the  trees.  He 
listened — there  was  no  sound.  His  heart  sank  and  sank 
till  he  felt  as  if  it  had  entered  his  boots. 

'With  a  kind  of  desperate  hope  he  knelt  on  the  window- 
sill  and  looked  through  a  hole  in  the  shutter  into  the  room. 

It  was  bare  of  furniture — empty,  desolate. 

He  got  down  again  and  looked  about  him  like  one  who, 
having  buried  a  treasure,  goes  to  the  spot  and  finds  that 
it  has  gone. 

Gone — that  was  the  word — and  no  sign ! 

It  was  incredible.  Three  days — only  three  days. 
What  had  happened?  Was — was  anyone  dead?  And  at 
this  thought  his  face  grew  as  pale  as  the  tan  would  allow  it. 

No;  that  was  absurd.  People — she — could  not  have 
died  and  been  buried  in  three  days !  Then,  where  was 
she?  Was  it  possible  that  the  old  man  had  actually  left 


108  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

the    Avood — thrown    up    his    livelihood — because    of    his 
(Jack's)  visit  to  the  cottage? 

A  great  deal  more  disturbed  and  upset  than  he  had  been 
over  the  squire's  will,  he  paced  up  and  down.  He  sat 
down  on  the  seat  outside  the  window — the  seat  where  he 
had  drunk  his  cider  and  eaten  his  cake — the  seat  where 
Mrs.  Davenant  sat  so  patiently — and  he  lit  his  pipe  and 
smoked  in  utter  bewilderment. 

Disappointment  is  but  a  lukewarm  word  by  which  to 
describe  his  feelings. 

He  felt  that  he  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  Una  as  a 
sort  of  set-off  against  the  terrible  blow  which  the  squire's 
will  had  dealt  him,  and  now  she  was  gone ! 

I  am  afraid  to  say  how  many  hours  he  sat  smoking  and 
musing,  in  the  vain  hope  that  she,  or  Gideon  Eolfe,  or 
someone  would  come  to  tell  him  something  about  it;  but 
at  last  he  realized  that  she  had  indeed  flown ;  that  the  nest 
which  had  contained  the  beautiful  bird  was  empty  and 
void ;  and  with  a  heart  that  felt  like  lead,  he  set  out  for 
Wermesley. 

By  chance,  more  than  calculation,  he  caught  the  lip- 
train,  and  was  whirled  into  London. 

Weary,  exhausted  rather,  he  signaled  a  hansom.,  and 
was  driven  to  Spider  Court. 

Spider  Court  is  not  an  easy  place  to  find.  It  is  in  the 
heart  of  the  Temple,  and  consists  of  about  ten  houses, 
every  one  of  which,  like  a  Chinese  puzzle,  contains  a  num- 
ber of  houses  within  itself. 

Barristers— generally  briefless-— inhabit  Spider  Court; 
but  it  is  the  refuge  of  the  hard-working  literary  man,  and 
of  the  members  of  that  strange  class  which  is  always  wait- 
ing for  "something  to  turn  up." 

Jack  ascended  the  stairs  of  No.  5,  passed  various  doors 
bearing  the  names  of  the  occupants  on  the  other  side  of 
them,  and  opened  a  door  which  bore  the  legend : 
"Leonard  Dagle. 
"John  Xewcombe." 
painted  in  small  black  letters  on  its  cross-panel. 

It  was  not  a  large  room,  and  it  was  plainly  furnished : 
t  looked  comfortable.     Its  contents  looked  rather  in- 
congruous. 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  101" 

At  the  end  of  the  room,  close  by  the  window,  which  only 
allowed  about  four  hours  of  daylight  to  enter  it,  stood  a 
table  crowded  with  papers,  presenting  that  appearance 
which  ladies  generally  call  "a  litter."  The  table  and  book- 
shelf, filled  with  heavy-looking  volumes,  would  give  one 
the  impression  that  the  room  belonged  to  a  barrister  or  a 
literary  man,  if  it  were  not  for  a  set  of  boxing-gloves  and 
a  pair  of  fencing  foils,  which  hung  over  the  fireplace,  and 
the  prints  of  ballet-girls  and  famous  actresses  which 
adorned  the  walls. 

As  Jack  entered  the  room,  a  man,  who  was  sitting  at 
the  table,  turned  his  head,  and  peering  through  the  gloom 
which  a  single  candle  only  served  to  emphasize,  exclaimed : 

"Jack,  is  that  you?" 

The  speaker  was  the  Leonard  Dagle  whose  name  ap- 
peared conjointly  with  Jack's  on  the  door  of  the  chambers. 

Seen  by  the  light  of  the  single  candle,  Leonard  Dagle 
looked  handsome ;  it  was  left  for  the  daylight  to  reveal  the 
traces  which  life's  battle  had  cut  in  his  regular  features. 
One  had  only  to  glance  at  the  face  to  be  reminded  of  the 
old  saying  of  the  sword  wearing  the  scabbard.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  man  who  had  fought  the  hard  fight  of  one  hand 
against  the  world,  and  had  not  yet  won  the  victory. 

Leonard  Dagle  was  Jack's  old  chum;  friends  he  had  in 
plenty — dangerous  friends  many  of  them — but  Leonard 
was  his  brother  and  companion  in  arms.  They  had  shared 
the  same  rooms,  the  same  tankard  of  bitter,  sometimes  the 
same  crust,  for  years. 

There  was  not  a  secret  between  them.  Either  would 
have  given  the  other  his  last  penny  and  felt  grateful  for 
the  acceptance  of  it.  It  was  a  singular  friendship,  for 
no.  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  than  Leonard  Dagle, 
the  hard-working  barrister,  and  Jack  Newcombe,  the 
spendthrift,  the  ne'er-do-well,  and — the  Savage. 

"Is  that  you,  Jack?"  exclaimed  Leonard,  straightening 
his  back.  "Home  already?" 

"Yes,  I'm  back." 

"What's  the  matter— tired  ?" 

"Tired — bored — humbled — thoroughly  used  mip !  I've 
got  news  for  you,  Len." 


1 110  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"Bad  or  good  ?" 

"Bad  as  they  can  be.     First  the  squire's  dead !" 

"Dead  ?'' 

"Yes,  dead  and  buried.     Poor  old  fellow!" 

"I  am  very  sorry.  Then  you — then  you — am  I  address- 
ing the  Squire  of  Hurst  Leigh?" 

"You  are  addressing  the  pauper  of  Spider  Court." 

"Jack,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  the  poor  old  fellow  has  died  and  left  me 
nothing — not  even  a  mourning-ring." 

"I'm  very  sorry.     Left  you  nothing,  my  dear  old  man !" 

"Don't  pity  me.  I  can't  stand  that.  Say  serves  you 
right,  say  anything.  After  all,  what  did  I  deserve?" 

"But  you  expected  something,"  said  Leonard. 

"Yes,  and  no.  I  expected  nothing  till  I  got  there,  and 
then  did.  I  saw  him  for  a  few  minutes  before  he  died,  and 
he  said — certainly  said — that  I — well,  that  there  would  be 
something  for  me." 

"And  there  is  nothing." 

"Not  a  stiver.  Mind  I  don't  complain,  Len.  I  didn't 
deserve  it." 

"Where  has  it  all  gone?  He  was  a  rich  man,  was  he 
not  ?"  asked  Leonard. 

"Rich  as  a  Croesus,"  replied  Jack,  "and  it  has  all  gone  to 
Stephen  Davenant." 

"That  is  the  man  that  goes  in  for  philanthropy  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

That's  the  man,"  replied  Jack. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Leonard,  after  a  long  pause. 

And,  with  many  pauses,  Jack  told  his  story. 

Leonard  Dagle  listened  intently. 

"It's  a  strange  story,  Jack,"  he  said.  "I— I— it  rather 
"puzzles  me.  There  could  be— of  course,  there  could  be 
nothing  wrong." 

^Wrong,  how  do  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  Jack. 

"Well,  Stephen  Davenant's  conduct  is  rather  peculiar 
—isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  he's  half  out  of  his  mind,"  said  Jack,  carelessly. 

>  has  been  playing  a  close  game  for  the  money,  and 

hanging  about  the  old  man  till  he  has  got  as  hysterical 

as  a  girl.    What  do  you  think  could  be  wrong?     Every- 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  Ill 

thing  was  as  correct  as  it  could  be — family  lawyer.,  who 
made  out  the  will,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"Then  you  think  the  squire  was  wandering  in  his  mind 
at  last?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Jack.  "He  wanted  to  provide  for  mo 
— to  leave  me  something,  and  he  fancied  he'd  done  it.  It  s 
often  the  case,  isn't  it?"1 

"I've  met  with  such  cases,"  said  Leonard. 

"Just  so,"  said  Jack.  "Is  there  anything  to  drink?" 
he  asked,  abruptly,  as  if  he  wanted  to  change  the  subject. 

"There's  some  whiskey " 

Jack  mixed  himself  a  tumbler  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  Leonard  Dagle  leaned  back  and  watched  him. 

"There's  something  else,  Jack,"  he  said.  "Out  with  it ; 
what  is  it?" 

"What  a  fellow  you  are,  Len.  You.  are  like  one  of  those 
mesmeric  men;  there's  no  keeping  anything  from  you. 
Well,  I've  had  an  adventure." 

"An  adventure?" 

"Yes,  I'm  half  under  the  impression  that  it's  nothing 
but  a  dream.  Len,  I've  seen  the  most  beautiful — the  most 
— Len,  do  you  believe  in  witches  ?  Not  the  old  sort,  but 
the  young  ones — sirens,  didn't  they  call  them ;  who  used  to 
haunt  the  woods  and  forests  and  tempt  travelers  into  quag- 
mires and  ditches.  The  innocent-looking  kind  of  sirens, 
you  know.  Well,  I've  seen  one !" 

"Jack,  you've  been  drinking;  put  that  glass  down." 

"Have  I?  Then  I  haven't.  Look  here,"  and  he  told 
the  story  of  his  wanderings  in  Warden,  and  all  it  had  led 
up  to. 

"How's  that  for  an  adventure?"  he  said,  when  he  had 
finished. 

"It  would  do  for  a  mediaeval  romance.  And  she  has 
gone,  you  say?" 

"Clean  gone,"  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh  and  a  long  pull  at 
the  tumbler.  "Gone  like  a — a  dream,  you  know.  How 
is  that  for  an  adventure?  You  don't  believe  iu.  them, 
though." 

Leonard  Dagle  looked  up,  and  there  was  a  strange,  half- 
shy  expression  in  his  face. 


112  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

"You  are  right,  Jack.  I  didn't  till  the  day  before  yes- 
terday." 

"The  day  before  yesterday  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 
"Simply  that  I,  too,  have  had  an  adventure." 
"Seems  to  me  that  we're  like  those  confounded  nuisances 
who  used  to  meet  on  a  coach  and  tell  stories  to  amuse 
themselves.     Go  on ;  it's  your  turn  now." 
"Mine's  soon  told.     After  you  started  for  Hurst  Leigh 

I  got  a  letter  from  a  man  at  Wermesley '* 

"Wermesley !"  exclaimed  Jack.     "Why " 

"Yes,  it  is  on  the  same  line.  He  wanted  me  to  go  down 
to  look  over  some  deeds,  and  I  went.  I  took  a  return 
ticket  and  got  into  the  last  train.  When  I  got  into  the 
carriage — I  went  'first'  on  the  strength  of  the  business — 
I  saw  a  young  lady — mind,  a  young  lady — seated  in  a 
corner.  It  struck  me  as  rather  odd  that  a  young  girl 
should  be  traveling  alone  at  this  time  of  night,  and  [ 
shifted  about  until  I  could  get  a  good  look  at  her.  Jack, 
you're  not  the  only  man  that  has  seen  a  beautiful  girl 
within  the  last  week." 

"Beautiful,  eh?"  cried  Jack,  interested. 
"Beautiful  in  my  eyes.  The  sort  of  face  that  Cleopatra 
might  have  had  when  she  was  that  girl's  age.  I  never  saw 
such  eyes,  and  I  had  plenty  of  opportunity  of  seeing  them, 
for  she  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  my  presence.  Jack, 
I'm  a  shy  man,  and  I'm  often  sorry  for  it,  but  I  was 
never  sorrier  than  I  was  then,  for  I'd  have  given  anything 
to  have  been  able  to  speak  to  her  and  hear  her  speak. 
There  she  sat,  looking  like  a  picture,  quite  motionless,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  flare  of  the  lamp;  and  there  I  sat 
and  couldn't  pluck  up  courage  to  say  a  word.  At  last  we 
got  to  London ;  they  came  for  the  tickets,  and  she  couldn't 
find  hers.  I  went  down  on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  at 
last  I  found  the  ticket  under  the  seat.  I  looked  at  it  as  I 
gave  it  to  the  porter;  and  where  do  you  think  it  was 
from?" 

Jack  shook  his  head.  He  didn't  think  it  much  of  an 
adventure  after  Una  and  Warden  Forest. 

"You'll  never  guess.  What  do  you  say  to  Hurst 
Leigh?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HE1K?  113 

"Hurst  Leigh !  Why,  who  was  she  ?  Somebody  I  know, 
perhaps." 

"I  found  my  tongue  at  last,  and  said,  'You  have  had  a 
long  journey.  Hurst  Leigh  is  a  beautiful  place/  And 
what  do  you  think  she  said?" 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"She  said,  'I  don't  know.  I  have  never  been  there  be- 
fore today.'  That's  all  until  we  got  to  the  terminus,  then 
I  asked  her  if  I  could  get  her  luggage.  'I  haven't  any,'  she 
said.  'Could  I  get  her  a  cab  ?'  I  asked.  Yes,  I  might  get 
her  a  cab.  I  went  and  found  a  cab  and  put  her  in  it; 
and,  if  I  had  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  as  to  her  being  a  lady, 
the  way  in  which  she  thanked  me  would  have  dispelled  it. 
I  asked  her  where  I  should  direct  the  cabman  to  drive,  and 
she  said  24  Cheltenham  Terrace.  And — and  then  she 
went." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I — of  course  you'll  call  me  a  fool,  Jack,  I  am 
quite  aware  of  that — I  followed  in  another  cab." 

"Good  heavens  !     You've  been  drinking !" 

"No.  I  followed,  and  when  she  had  gone  I  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  next  house  and  asked  the  name  of  the  peo- 
ple who  lived  next  door.  They — for  a  wonder — were  civil, 
and  told  me.  She  lives  with  her  grandfather,  and  her 
name  is  Laura  Treherne." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"Her  name  is  Laura  Treherne,"  said  Leonard. 

"Laura  Treherne.     Never  heard  the  name  before." 

"Nor  I,  but  it  belongs  to  the  most  beautiful  creature  I 
have  ever  seen." 

"That's  because  you  haven't  seen  Una  Eolfe,"  put  in 
Jack,  coolly.  "But  I  say,  Len,  what  has  come  to  us? 
We've  both  caught  the  universal  epidemic  at  the  same  time. 
It's  nothing  wonderful  in  me,  you  know — but  you — you, 
who  wouldn't  look  at  a  woman!  Have  you  got  it  bad, 
Len?" 

"Very  bad,  Jack.  Yes,  the  time  which  Eosseau  calls 
the  supremest  in  one's  life,  has  come  to  me.  As  a  novice  in 
the  art  of  love-making,  I  come  to  you  for  advice." 


114  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

"Why,  it's  easy  enough  in  your  case.  You  know  where 
to  put  your  hand  upon  the  lady.  What  are  you  to  do? 
Why,  disguise  yourself  as  a  sweep,  and  go  and  sweep  the 
chimneys  at  24  Cheltenham  Square,  or  pretend  you're  the 
tax  collector,  or  'come  to  look  at  the  gas  meter.'  You've 
got  half  a  dozen  plans,  hut  I — what  am  I  to  do  ?  I've  seen 
the  most  beautiful  creature  in  existence,  and  if  I'm  not  in 
love  with  her " 

"I  should  say  you  were,"  said  Leonard,  gently. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  knew  it  when  I  found  that  confounded 
cottage  empty.  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I  haven't  the 
faintest  clew  to  her  whereabouts.  The  old  gentleman  with 
the  hatchet  may  have  murdered  his  whole  family — her  in- 
cluded— or  emigrated  to  Australia." 

"It  is  very  strange.  Didn't  you  notice  any  sign  of  a 
move  about  the  place  the  first  night  you  were  there  ?"  • 

"No,  none.  Everything  looked  as  if  it  had  been  going 
on  for  a  hundred  years — excepting  Una — and  meant  to  go 
on  for  another  hundred.  Len,  I'm  afraid  we've  been  be- 
witched. Perhaps  it's  all  a  dream;  I  haven't  been  down 
to  Hurst  and  you  haven't  been  down  to  Wermesley.  We 
shall  wake  up  directly — oh,  no !  The  poor  squire !  Len, 
it's  all  true,  and  we're  a  couple  of  young  fools !" 

"Speak  for  yourself,  old  fellow.  I  have  been  a  fool  un- 
til three  days  ago,  now  I  am  as  wise  as  Solomon,  for  I  have 
learned  what  love  is." 

"So  have  I — I  have  also  learned  the  vanity  of  human 
wishes,  and  the  next  thing  I  shall  have  to  learn  will  be 
some  way  of  earning  a  livelihood.  I  should  prefer  an 
honest  one,  but — poor  men  can't  afford  to  be  particular, 
and  honesty  doesn't  seem  to  pay  now-a-days.  I  feel  so 
hard  up  and  reckless  that  I  could  become  a  bank  director 
or  a  member  of  Parliament  without  feeling  a  pang  of 
conscience." 

Leonard  looked  up  at  him,  for  the  vein  of  bitterness  was 
plainly  to  be  detected  running  through  Jack's  banter;  and 
Leonard  knew  that  when  Jack  was  bitter— which  was  but 
once  in  a  year,  say— he  was  reckless. 

"We  must  talk  it  over.  Sit  down— get  off  that  table ; 
i  re  makmg  a  perfect  hash  of  my  papers— and  let's  talk 
it  over.  You  won't  go  out  tonight." 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  115 

"Yes,  I  shall.    I  shall  go  down  to  the  club." 

"No¥  no,  keep  away  from  the  club  tonight,  Jack." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?  Do  you  think  1  shall  want 
to  gamble  ?  I've  no  money  to  lose." 

"That's  the  very  reason  you'll  want  to  play.  Do  keep  at 
home  tonight." 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  old  man,"  he  said.  "I'm  on  wires — 
I'm  all  on  fire.  If  I  sat  here  much  longer,  I  should  get  up 
suddenly,  murder  you,  and  sack  the  place.  The  Savage 
has  got  his  paint  on,  and  is  on  the  trail." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Jack.  You  are  hot  and  upset.  Keep 
away  from  the  club  tonight.  Well,  well — let  the  ecarte 
alone,  at  any  rate." 

"All  right,  I'll  promise  you  that.  I  won't  touch  a  card 
tonight.  Ecarte!  I  couldn't  play  beggar-my-neighbor 
tonight !  Len,  I  wish  you  were  a  bigger  man ;  I'd  get  up 
a  row,  and  have  a  turn-to  with  you.  Sit  down  here !  I 
couldn't  do  it.  I  want  to  be  doing  something — something 
desperate.  You  can  sit  here  and  dream  over  your  com- 
plaint ;  I  can't — I  should  go  mad !  Don't  sit  up  for  me." 

Leonard  looked  after  him  as  he  disappeared  into  one  of 
the  two  bedrooms  which  adjoined  the  common  sitting- 
room,  and,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  muttered,  "Poor 
Jack !"  and  returned  to  his  work. 

Jack  took  a  cold  bath,  dressed  himself,  and  merely  paus- 
ing to  shout  a  good-night,  as  he  passed  down  the  stairs, 
went  into  the  street,  and  jumped  into  a  hansom,  telling 
the  man  to  drive  to  the  Hawks'  Club. 

It  was  rather  early  for  the  "Hawks,"  and  only  a  few 
of  them  had  fluttered  in.  It  was  about  the  last  club  that 
such  a  man  as  Jack  should  have  been  a  member  of.  It 
was  fast,  it  was  expensive,  it  was  fashionable,  and  the 
chief  reason  for  its  existence  lay  in  the  fact  that  play  at 
any  time,  and  to  any  extent,  could  be  obtained  there. 

When  Jack  entered  the  cardroom,  that  apartment  was 
almost  empty,  but  the  suspicious-looking  tables  were  sur- 
rounded by  chairs  stuck  up  on  two  legs,  denoting  that 
they  were  engaged,  and  those  men  who  were  present  were 
all  playing. 

Every  head  was  turned  as  he  entered,  and  a  buzz  of 
greeting  rose  to  welcome  him. 


HG  OXLY  <X\K  LOVE:  OR, 

"Halloa;  you  back,  Jack!"  said  a  lull,  military-looking 
man,  who  was  known  as  the  "Indian  Xut,"  because  he  was 
one  of  llio  most  famous  of  our  Indian  colonels.  "You're 
just  in  time  to  take  a  hand  at  loo/" 

".No;  come  and  join  us,"  said  young  Lord  Pierrepoint, 
from  another  table,  at  which  nap  was  being  played. 

But  if  you  could  only  wring  a  promise  out  of  Jack,  you 
could  rest  perfectly  certain  that  he  would  keep  it ;  and  he 
shook  his  head  firmly. 

"Nary  a  card." 

"What !     Don't  you  feel  well,  Jack  ?" 

"No,  I'm  hungry.     I'm  going  to  get  something  to  eat." 

"Dear  me,  I  didn't  know  you  did  eat,  Jack.  However, 
man,  come  and  sit  down,  and  don't  fidget  about  the  room 
like  that." 

"Len's  right,  the  club  won't  do  neither.  I  couldn't  .hold 
a  card  straight  tonight.  I'll  get  some  dinner,  and  go 
back,  and  we'll  have  it  all  over  again." 

It  was  a  wise  and  virtuous  resolution;  and,  unlike  most 
resolves,  Jack  meant  to  keep  it.  But  alas !  before  he  had 
got  through  with  his  soup,  the  door  opened  and  two  mer_ 
strolled  in. 

They  were  both  young  and  well-known.  The  one  was 
Sir  Arkroyd  Hetley ;  the  other,  the  young  Lord  Dalrymple, 
whose  coronet  had  scarcely  yet  warmed  his  forehead,  as 
the  French  say. 

Both  of  them  uttered  an  exclamation  at  seeing  Jack, 
and  made  straight  for  his  table. 

"Why,  here's  the  Savage !"  exclaimed  Dalrymple.  "Back 
to  his  native  forest  primeval." 

"Been  on  the  war  trail,  Jack?"  asked  Sir  Arkroyd. 
"How  are  the  squaws  and  wigwams?  Seriously,  where 
have  you  been,  old  man  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  on  the  war  trail,"  he  said. 

"And  got  some  scalps,  I  hope,"  said  Dalrymple.  "What 
are  you  doing—dining?  What  do  you  say,  Ark,  shall  we 
It's  so  long  since  I've  eaten  anything  that  I 
should  like  to  watch  a  man  do  it  before  I  make  an  at- 
tempt." 

The  footman  put  chairs  and  rearranged  the  table,  and 
the  two  men  chatted  and  conned  over  the  carte. 


WHO  WAS  THE  ilEili:-  11 ; 

"You  don't  look  quite  the  thing,  Jack.  Been  going  it  in 
the  forest,  or  what  1" 

"Yes,  I've  been  going  it  in  the  forest,  Dally." 

"Been  hunting  the  buffalo  and  chumming  up  with  his 
old  friend,  Spotted  Bull,"  said  Arkroyd.  "Bet  you  any- 
thing he  hasn't  been  out  of  London,  Daddy." 

"Take  him,"  said  Jack.  "I've  been  out  of  London  on  a 
little  matter  of  business." 

"He's  been  robbing  a  bank,"  said  Arkroyd,  "or  breaking 
»ne." 

"Neither.  Stop  chaffing,  you  two,  and  tell  a  fellow 
what's  going  on." 

"Shall  we  tell  him,  Dally  ?  Perhaps  he'll  try  to  cut  us 
out.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  start  a  joint  stock 
company,  all  club  together,  you  know,  and  work  it  in  that 
way,  the  one  who  wins  to  share  with  the  other  fellows." 

"Wins  what  ?  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  Is 
it  a  sweepstake,  a  handicap,  or  what " 

"No,  my  noble  Savage.     It's  the  heiress." 

"Oh,"  said  Jack,  indifferently,  and  he  sipped  his  claret 
critically. 

"What  has  come  to  you,  Jack?  Have  you  decided  to  cut 
the  world  or  have  heiresses  become  unnecessary  ?  Perhaps 
someone  has  left  you  a  fortune,  old  man ;  if  so,  nobody  will 
be  more  delighted  than  I  shall  be — to  help  you  spend  it." 

A  flush  rose  to  Jack's  face,  and  his  eyes  flashed.  He 
had  been  drinking  great  bumpers  of  the  Hawks'  favorite 
claret — a  heady  wine  which  Jack  should  never  have 
touched  at  any  time,  especially  not  tonight. 

"No,  no  one  has  left  me  a  fortune;  quite  the  reverse. 
But  you'd  better  tell  me  about  this  heiress,  I  see,  or  you'll 
die  of  disappointment.  Who  is  she — where  is  she  ? — what 
is  she  ?  Here's  her  good  health,  whoever  she  is,"  and  down 
went  another  bumper  of  the  Lafitte ;  and  as  it  went  down, 
it  was  to  Una  he  drank,  not  to  the  unknown  one. 

"Do  you  remember  Earlsley?"  said  Arkroyd.  "Oh,  no, 
of  course  not,  you  must  have  been  in  your  cradle  in  the 
wigwam  in  that  time.  Well,  old  Wigsley  died  and  left  his 
money  to  a  fifty-second  cousin,  who  turned  out  to  be  a 
girl.  No  one  knew  anything  about  her;  no  one  knew 
where  to  find  her;  but  at  last  there  comes  a  claimant  in 


118  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OK, 

the  shape  of  a  girl  from  one  of  the  Colonies — Canada. 
That  isn't  a  colony,  is  it,  though  ?  Australia — anywhere — 
nobody  knows,  you  know.  She  came  over  with  her  belong- 
ings— a  rum-looking  old  fellow,  with  a  white  head  of  long 
hair,  like,  a — a — what's  got  a  long  head  of  white  hair, 
Dally?" 

"Try  patriarch,"  murmured  the  marquis. 

"Well,  in  addition  to  the  money,  and  there's  about  a 
million,  more  or  less — she's  got  the  most  beautiful,  that 
isn't  the  word,  most  charming,  fascinating  little  face  you 
ever  saw.  If  she  looks  at  you,  you  feel  as  if  you  never 
could  feel  an  ache  or  pain  again  as  long  as  you  lived." 

"Ark,  you've  had  too  much  champagne." 

"No;  'pon  my  honor.     Isn't  it  right,  Dally?" 

"Yes,  and  if  she  smiles,"  said  Dalrymple,  "you  never 
could  feel  another  moment's  unhappiness.  The  prettiest 
mouth — and  when  it  opens,  her  teeth " 

"Oh,  confound  it !"  exclaimed  Jack,  brusquely.  "You 
needn't  run  over  her  points  as  if  she  were  a  horse ;  I  don't 
want  to  buy  her." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  only  caught  the  last  word  or 
two,  for  while  Arkroyd  had  been  talking  he  had  been 
thinking  of  that  other  beautiful  girl — not  a  doll,  with 
teeth  and  a  smile,  but  an  angel,  pure  and  ethereal — a 
dream — not  a  fascinating  heiress. 

"Buy  her!"  exclaimed  Arkroyd.  "Listen  to  him! 
Don't  I  tell  you  she's  worth  a  million  ?" 

"And  I'd  make  her  Countess  of  Dalrymple  tomorrow  if 
she  hadn't  a  penny,  and  would  have  me,"  said  Dalrymple. 

"Try  her,"  said  Jack,  curtly. 

"No  use,  my  dear  Savage,"  he  said,  tugging  at  his  in- 
cipient fringe  of  down  ruefully.  "She  won't  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  yours  truly,  or  to  any  one  of  us  for  that 
matter.  She  only  smiles  when  we  say  pretty  things,  and 
shows  her  teeth  at  us.  Besides,  the  title  wouldn't  tempt 
her.  She's  got  one  already.  Don't  I  tell  you  she's  one  of 
the  Earlsley  lot  ?  No ;  we've  all  had  a  try,  even  Arkroyd.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  get  a  fellow  to  "write  a  poem  about 
m  one  of  the  society  journals,  and  signed  it  'A.  H. ;' 
but  she  told  him  to  his  face  that  she  didn't  care  for  poetry. 

t  was  a  pretty  piece,  too,  wasn't  it,  Ark?" 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  119 

"First-rate/'  said  Arkroyd,  with  as  much  modesty  as  if 
he  had  written  it.  "But  it  was  all  thrown  away  on  Lady 
Bell." 

"On  whom?"  said  Jack,  waking  up  again. 

"On  Lady  Bell — Isabel  Earlsley  is  her  name.  You're 
wool-gathering  tonight,  Jack." 

"Oh,  Lady  Bell,  is  it?"  said  Jack,  carelessly.  "Go 
ahead.  Anything  else?" 

"No,  that's  all,  excepting  that  I'll  wager  a  cool  thousand 
to  a  china  orange  that  you'll  change  your  tone  when  you  see 
her,  Savage." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jack,  "but  your  description  doesn't 
move  me ;  not  much,  Ark.  You're  not  good  at  that  sort  of 
thing.  It  isn't  in  your  line.  The  only  things  you  seem 
to  have  remarked  are  her  smile  and  her  teeth." 

"Savage,  you  are,  as  usual,  blunt,  not  to  say  rude.  Let 
us  have  another  bottle  of  Cliquot." 

Jack  shook  his  head,  but  another  bottle  came  up,  and  he 
sat  and  took  his  share  in  silence,  and,  indeed,  almost  un- 
consciously. For  all  the  attention  he  paid  to  the  chatter 
of  his  two  friends  they  might  not  have  been  present. 

His  thoughts  flew  backward  to  the  shady  grove  of  War- 
den Forest,  to  the  girl  who,  like  a  vision  of  purity  and  in- 
nocence and  loveliness,  had  floated  like  a  dream  across  his 
life. 

He  gave  one  passing  thought  to  Len,  too,  and  his  story. 

It  was  a  strange  coincidence  that  they  should  both  have 
met  their  fates  at  one  and  the  same  time,  or  nearly  so. 

He  would  have  thought  it  stranger  still  if  he  could  have 
lifted  the  veil  of  the  future  and  seen  how  closely  the  web  of 
his  life  was  woven  with  the  woof,  not  only  of  Una's,  but  of 
Laura  Treherne,  and  also  of  Lady  Bell  Earlsley. 

All  unconscious  he  had  turned  a  leaf  of  his  life's  book, 
and  had  begun  a  new  chapter  in  which  these  three  women 
were  to  take  a  part. 

But  he  sat  and  drank  the  champagne,  knowing  nothing 
of  this,  and — I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it — he  was  rapidly 
arriving  at  that  condition  in  which  it  is  dangerous  to  be 
within  a  mile  of  that  fascinating  fluid.  When  a  man 
passes  from  a  state  of  half-feverish  restlessness  and  dissat- 
isfaction to  one  of  comparative  comfort,  and  that  by  the 


120  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OB, 

aid  of  the  cheering  glass,  it  is  time  to  put  the  cheering 
glass  aside  and  go  home. 

Jack  did  not  go  home;  on  the  contrary,  he  went  into  the 
billiard-room,  and  Cliquot  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

For  a  time  Jack  had  managed  to  forget  everything  ex- 
cepting his  promise  to  Len;  he  would  not  enter  the  card- 
room,  but  he  stuck  to  pool  and  champagne. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

I  am  not  going  to  apologize  for  our  hero,  nor  am  I  going 
to  gloss  over  his  faults  with  any  specious  special  pleading. 
Xo  man  is  either  wholly  good  or  wholly  bad;  certainly 
Jack  was  not  wholly  good;  he  was  human,  very  human, 
and  blessed,  or  cursed,  with  a  hot,  passionate  blood,  which 
made  him  more  liable  to  trip  than  most  men.  But,  at 
the  same  time,  this  in  justice  must  be  said  of  him,  that 
he  very  rarely  sinned  in  this  way. 

Tonight  his  blood  was  at  full  heat;  the  love  which  had 
sprung  up  like  a  tongue  of  flame  in  his  heart  burned  and 
maddened  him,  and  to  this  newly-born  love  was  added  the 
disappointment  and  bewilderment  of  Una's  sudden  disap- 
pearance. Add,  too,  that  he  had  been  overstrained  and 
upset,  and — well,  there  are  the  excuses  and  apologies,  after 
all. 

Somewhere  about  two  o'clock,  when  the  club  was  full 
with  men  who  had  dropped  in  from  theater  and  ball- 
room, and  amidst  the  popping  of  corks  and  click  of  pool 
balls,  a  certain  feeling  came  over  poor  Jack  that  he  had 
taken  quite  as  much,  and  more,  of  the  sparkling  juice 
than  was  good  for  him ;  and  with  that  consciousness  came 
the  resolution  to  go  home. 

The  game  was  just  over,  and  without  a  word  he  put  up 
his  cue,  motioned  to  a  footman  to  bring  him  his  hat.  and, 
scarcely  noticed  in  the  crowd  and  bustle,  slowly  descended 
the  broad  and  indeed  magnificent  staircase  for  which  and 
its  palatial  hall  the  club  was  famous. 

He  descended  very  slowly,  with  his  hand  on  the  balus- 

ade.  and  having  reached  the  bottom,  he  filled  a  glass  with 
water  from  the  crystal  filter  that  stood  on  a  side  table  in 
the  porter  s  box,  and  sallied  out 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  121 

The  night  air  struck  upon  his  hot  brow  in  a  cool  and 
welcome  fashion,  and  Jack  stood  for  a  moment  or  two, 
fighting  with  the  hazy  and  stupefying  effects  of  the  night's 
work. 

"I  won't  go  home  yet,"  he  muttered.  "Len  will  be  cut 
up ;  he  always  is.  He's  as  bad  as  a  father — almost  as  bad 
as  a  mother-in-law.  Well,  I  didn't  touch  the  cards,  any- 
how. And  if  it  had  not  been  for  those  two  idiots,  Ark  and 
Dally,  I  shouldn't  have  got  so  far  into  the  champagne. 
How  bright  the  stars  shine — an  unaccountable  number  of 
them  tonight."  Poor  Jack  !  "Never  saw  such  a  quantity  ! 
No,  I  won't  go  home  yet.  I'll  walk  it  off  if  I  have  to  walk 
till  tomorrow  morning.  Where  am  I  ?  Ah  !  where  is  she  ? 
Thank  Heaven,  she  isn't  near  me  now!  I'm  glad  she's 
gone ;  I'm  glad  I  shall  never  see  her  any  more.  I'm  not  fit 
to  see  her;  not  worthy  to  touch  her  hand.  But  I  did 
touch  it,"  and,  with  a  kind  of  wonder  at  his  audacity,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  stared  at  it  under  the  gas- 
lamp. 

Then  he  walked  on  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  direction, 
perfectly  indifferent  to  the  weariness  which  was  gradually 
— no,  rapidly — coming  on  him. 

Just  at  this  time,  while  he  was  walking  off  the  drowsy 
dream  that  had  got  possession  of  him,  a  stream  of  car- 
riages was  slowly  moving  down  Park  Lane,  taking  up  from 
one  of  the  best  known  houses  in  town — Lady  Merivale's. 

Lady  Merivale  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  ton  and  had 
been  one  as  long  as  most  middle-aged  people  could  remem- 
ber. To  be  seen  at  Lady  Merivale's  was  to  be  acknowl- 
edged as  one  of  that  small  but  powerful  portion  of  human- 
ity known  as  "the  upper  ten." 

It  was  one  of  her  ladyship's  grand  balls,  and  not  only 
were  the  ball  and  drawing-rooms  full,  but  the  staircase 
also,  and  any  one  wishing  to  enter  or  exit  had  to  make  his 
way  down  a  narrow  line  flanked  on  either  side  by  the  youth 
and  nobility  of  the  best  kind  of  society. 

That  it  had  been  a  great  success  no  one  who  knows  the 
world — and  Lady  Merivale — needs  to  be  told.  It  had,  per- 
haps, been  one  of  her  greatest,  for  in  additi<jn  to  two 
princes  of  the  blood  royal,  she  had  secured  the  great  sensa- 


122  OXLY  OXELOYE;  OK, 

tion  of  the  day,  the  young  millionairess,  Lady  Isabel  Earls- 
ley. 

And  this  was  no  slight  achievement.,  for  Lady  Bell,  as 
she  was  generally  called,  was  a  wilful,  uncertain  young 
personage,  from  whom  it  was  very  hard  to  procure  a  prom- 
ise, and  who,  not  seldom,  was  given  to  breaking  it  when 
made,  at  least,  so  far  as  acceptation  of  invitations  went. 

But  she  was  there  tonight;  as  the  next  issue  of  the 
Morning  Post  would  testify. 

Jack  had  been  really  too  careless  and  scornful  in  his 
indifference.  Lady  Bell  was  not  only  beautiful,,  she  was 
— what  was  more  rare  than  beauty — charming.  She  was 
rather  short  than  tall ;  but  not  too  short.  She  had  a  beau- 
j  tiful  figure ;  not  a  wasp  waist  by  any  means,  but  a  natural 
figure,  full  of  power  and  grace.  Her  skin  was,  well,  colon- 
ial; delicately  tinted  and  creamy;  and  her  eyes — it  is  dif- 
ficult to  catalogue  her  eyes,  because  their  lights  were  al- 
ways changing — but  the  expression  which,  generally  pre- 
dominated was  one  of  half-amused,  half-mocking  light. 

With  both  expressions  she  met  the  open  admiration  of 
the  gilded  youths  who  thronged  round  her,  amused  at 
their  foppery,  mocking  at  their  protestations  of  devotion. 
Tonight  she  was  dressed  neither  magnificently  nor 
superbly,  but  with,  what  seemed  to  the  women  who  gazed 
at  her  with  barely  concealed  envy,  artful  simplicity. 

Her  dress  was  of  Indian  muslin,  priceless  for  all  its 
simplicity;  and  she  wore  glittering  in  her  hair,  on  her 
arms,  and  on  her  cream-white  bosom,  pearls,  that,  in  quan- 
tity and  quality  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  any  en- 
terprising burglar. 

By  her  side  stood — for  they  were  moving  toward  the 
door,  on  their  way  to  an  exit — an  elderly  woman,  with  an 
expressionless  face,  simply  and  plainly  dressed.  She  was 
generally  spoken  of  as  the  watch  dog;  but  she  scarcely 
deserved  that  name,  for  Lady  Bell  was  quite  capable  of 
watching  over  herself;  and  Mrs.  Fellowes,  the  widow  of 
the  Indian  colonel,  was  too  mild  to  represent  any  sort  of 
dog  whatever. 

Surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  devoted  courtiers,  the  great 
heiress  and  her  companion  moved  toward  the  door  where 
the  hostess  stood  receiving  the  farewells  and  thanks  of 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  123 

her  guests;  and  when  one  thinks  of  the  many  hundred 
times  Lady  Merivale  had  stood  by  that  door,  and  under- 
gone that  terrible  ordeal,  one  is  filled  with  amazement  and 
awe  at  her  courage  and  physical  strength. 

For  forty  years  she  had  been  standing  at  doors,  receiving 
and  meeting  guests;  yet  she  stood  tonight  as  smiling  and 
courageous  as  ever. 

At  last  Lady  Bell  reached  her  hostess,  and  Lady  Meri- 
vale, tired  and  done  up  as  she  was,  gave  her  special  recog- 
nition. 

"Must  you  go,  Lady  Bell?  Well,  good-night.  And 
thank  you  for  making  my  poor  little  dance  a  success. 
Thank  you  very  much." 

Lady  Bell  said  nothing,  but  she  smiled  "in  her  old  col- 
onial" way,  as  they  called  it,  and  threaded  through  the 
lane  of  human  beings  on  the  stairs. 

"Lady  Earlsley's  carriage !"  shouted  the  footman  in  the 
gorgeous  Merivale  livery,  and  a  little  brougham  drove  up. 

Lady  Bell  hated  show  and  magnificence. 

Her  stables  and  coach-houses  were  crowded  with  horses 
and  carriages,  her  wardrobes  filled  to  repletion  with 
Worth's  costumes  and  Elise's  "confections,"  as  bonnets  are 
called  now-a-days,  but  a  plain  little  brougham  was  her 
favorite  vehicle,  and  the  simplest  of  costumes  pleased  her 
best. 

All  the  way  down  the  stairs  she  had  to  nod  and  smile  and 
exchange  farewells,  and  at  the  bottom,  in  the  hall,  on  the 
stone  steps  themselves,  she  was  surrounded  by  men  eager 
to  secure  the  privilege  of  putting  her  into  her  little 
brougham. 

But  she  avoided  them  all,  and  sprang  in  as  if  she  had 
not  been  dancing  for  four  hours,  and  throwing  herself  back 
into  the  corner,  exclaimed : 

"Thank  goodness,  that  is  over.  Poor  old  Fellowes !  you 
are  worn  out.  Confess  it." 

"I  am  rather  tired,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes,  who 
had  been  sitting  against  a  wall  all  the  evening. 

"Tired !  of  course  you  are ;  it's  ever  so  much  more  tiring 
looking  on  than  dancing,  and  joining  in  the  giddy  round. 
I  don't  feel  a  bit  tired ;  I'm  a  little  bored." 


124  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  01?,, 

"Bored!  what  a  word,  my  deal  Bell,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Fellowes,  sleepily. 

"It's  a  good  word — it's  an  expressive  word — and  it  just 
means  really  what  I  feel." 

"And  yet  you  received  more  attention  than  any  woman 
— any  girl — an  the  room,  my  dear,"  murmured  Mrs.  Fel- 
lowes. 

"My  money-bags  may  have  done  so,"  said  Lady  Bell, 
scornfully ;  "not  I.  Do  you  think  that  if  I  were  as  penni- 
less as  one  of  Lady  Southerly's  daughters,  I  should  re- 
ceive as  much  attention?  Fellowes,  don't  you  take  to 
flattering  me.  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"I  don't  want  to  flatter  you,  my  dear  Bell;  but  when 
the  prince  himself  dances  twice  with  you — • — •" 

"Of  course  he  did.  I  am  a  celebrity.  I  am  the  richest 
young  woman  in  the  kingdom,  and  he  would  have  done 
it  if  I  had  been  as  ugly  as  sin — which  isn't  ugly,  by  the 
way." 

"What  strange  things  you  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  FeK 
Icwes,  with  mild  rebuke.  "I'm  sure  no  girl  received  more 
attention  than  you  have  tonight.  I  sat  and  watched  you, 
my  dear,  and  a  spectator  sees  more  of  the  game  than  a 
player." 

"You  are  right,  it  is  all  a  game,  a  gamble,"  retorted  Lady 
Bell.  "All  those  nice  young  men  were  playing  pitch  and 
toss  who  should  make  the  hardest  running  with  the  great 
heiress.  Do  you  think  I  am  blind?  I  can  see  through 
them  all,  and  I  despise  them.  There  isn't  a  man  among 
them  but  would  pay  me  the  same  court  if  I  were  as  plain 
as  Lucifer " 

"My  deal  Bell " 

"But  it  is  true,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "I  can  read  them  all. 
And  if  they  knew  how  I  despised  them,  even  while  I  smile 
upon  them,  they  would  keep  at  arm's  length  for  very 
shame.  I  wish  I  hadn't  a  penny  in  the  world." 

"My  dear  Bell!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Fellowes,  really  and 
truly  shocked  at  such  a  fearfully  profane  wish. 

I  do!  I  do!  I  should  then  find  out  if  any  one  of  them 

:red  for  me— for  myself.    You  say  I  am  beautiful,  hut 
i  are  so  partial;  do  you  think  I  am  beautiful  enough 

i  cause  any  man  to  risk  his  all  in  life  for  my  sake  ?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  U>5 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  just  follow  jou/'  said  poor  Mrs. 
Fellowes. 

"No,  you  are  half  asleep,"  retorted  Lady  Bell.  "There, 
curl  yourself  up  and  snooze.  I  shan't  talk  any  more." 

Lady  Bell  leaned  forward,  and  looked  up  at  the  stars — 
the  same  stars  that  seemed  so  numerous  to  poor  Jack — 
and  pondered  over  the  events  of  the  evening. 

It  was  true  that  a  prince  of  the  blood  had  danced  there 
with  her;  it  was  true  that,  all  through  the  evening,  she 
had  been  surrounded  by  a  court  of  the  best  men  in  London ; 
it  was  true  that  she  had  sent  one  half  the  women  home 
burning  with  envy  and  malice  and  all  uncharitableness ; 
but  still  she  was  not  happy. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  unheard  by  the  sleeping  com- 
panion; "the  dream  of  my  life  has  not  yet  been  fulfilled. 
I  have  not  yet  met  the  man  to  whom  I  could  say,  'I  am 
yours,  take  me !'  Perhaps  I  never  shall ;  and  until  I  do,  I 
will  remain  Lady  Bell,  though  they  buzz  round  my  money- 
bags till  I  am  deaf  with  their  hum." 

The  brougham  was  going  at  a  great  pace,  simply  because 
the  coachman  very  reasonably  desired  to  get  home  and 
to  bed;  and  Lady  Bell  saw  the  houses  flit  past  as  if  they 
had  been  part  of  a  panorama  got  up  for  her  special  amuse- 
ment. 

But  suddenly  the  brougham  swerved,  and,  indeed,  nearly 
upset,  and  the  stillness  of  the  night  was  broken  by  what 
seemed  remarkably  like  an  oath  by  the  coachman. 

Lady  Bell  felt  that  something  was  wrong;  but  she 
neither  turned  color  nor  lost  her  presence  of  mind. 

Putting  her  head,  with  a  thousand  pounds  of  jewels  on 
it,  through  the  window,  she  said,  in  clear  tones : 

"What  is  the  matter,  Jackson  ?" 

"I — whoa !  I  don't  quite  know,  my  lady ;  I  think  it  is 
a  man.  Something  came  right  across  the  road.  Yes,  it 
is  a  man." 

Lady  Bell' opened  the  brougham  door,  stepped  into  the 
road — the  light  from  the  lamp  flashing  on  ner  pearls — 
and  went  toward  the  horse. 

"Keep  away  from  her  hind  legs,  for  goodness*  sake,  my 
lady,"  ejaculated  Jackson.  "Keep  still,  will  you!"  this 
was  of  course  addressed  to  the  horse. 


126  OXLT  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

"What  is  it  ?  what  is  it  ?"  asked  Lady  Bell,  peering  about. 

"Here,  my  lady,  on  the  near  side — on  the  left.  It's 
down  in  the  road,  whatever  it  is." 

Lady  Bell  went  behind  the  brougham  to  the  near  side — 
she  was  too  well  acquainted  with  horses  and  their  moods 
to  cross  in  front  of  the  horse's  eyes — and  looked  about  her. 
For  a  moment  she  could  see  nothing,  but  presently,  when 
her  eyes  had  become  used  to  the  darkness,  she  saw  a  man 
lying,  as  it  seemed,  right  under  the  horse's  body. 

Her  impulse — and  she  always  acted  on  that  impulse — 
was  to  pull  him  out.  But  to  pull  a  man  even  an  inch  is  a 
difficult  task  even  for  the  strongest  girl,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's tug  she  was  about  to  tell  Jackson  to  alight  while 
she  stood  at  the  horse's  head,  when  suddenly  the  prostrate 
man  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  leaned  against  the  brougham 
as  if  it  had  been  specially  built  and  brought  there  for  that 
purpose.  •  "f'^"^lr^r.  ~. 

Lady  Bell  went  up  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  uporThis 
arm. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  she  said,  anxiously.  "Were  you 
run  over — are  you  hurt  ?" 

Jack — for  it  was  Jack — opened  his  eyes  and  stared  at 
her  with  the  gravity  of  a  man  suddenly  sobered. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  hurt.  Don't  blame  the  man, 
it  was  my  fault.  Not  hurt  at  all.  Good-night." 

And  he  feels  for  his  hat,  which  at  that  moment  was 
lying  under  the  carriage  a  shapeless  mass. 

As  he  spoke  Lady  Bell  saw  something  drop  on  to  his 
hand,  and  looking  at  it  saw  that  it  was  a  drop  of  blood. 

With  a  shudder— for  she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of 
blood — she  said : 

^Not  hurt !    Why,  you  are  bleeding." 
Am  IP'^said  Jack,  gravely  and  curtly.    "It  will  do  me 
Don't  you  be  alarmed,  miss.     I  am  used  to  being 

UPA6 Vv    my  bones  are  to°  hard  to  break-     Good-night." 
And  he  made  for  the  pavement  pretty  steadily.     But  a 

wft  and  warm,  and  strong  also,  stayed  him. 
W  op,    said  Lady  Bell ;  "I  am  sure  you  are  hurt.     How 
id^you  come  to  be  run  over?" 

"?i0t  in«JJe  *a?  of  the  horse<  I  suppose,"  said  Jack, 
quietly.  "That  is  the  usual  way." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  121' 

"But — but,"  said  Lady  Bell;  and  she  looked  at  the 
handsome  face  scrutinizingly. 

Then  she  stopped,  for  her  scrutiny  had  discovered  two 
facts ;  first,  that  the  individual  who  had  been  run  over  was 
a  gentleman ;  secondly,  that  he  had  been  drinking. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  still  keeping  her  hand  on  his  arm; 
"you  are  not  fit  to  go  alone  without  some  assistance,  and 
I  am  sure  you  are  hurt.  Look,  you  are  bleeding." 

"A  mere  nothing,"  said  Jack;  "don't  trouble.  Allow 
me  to  put  you  in — I  shall  get  home  all  right." 

Lady  Bell,  still  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  shook 
her  head. 

"I  couldn't  leave  you-  like  this,"  she  said.  "Where  do 
you  live  ?" 

"Where  do  I — live?"  repeated  Jack.  "Spider  Court, 
Temple.  It's  no  distance  from  here." 

"The  Temple!"  exclaimed  Lady  Bell.  "It  must  be 
miles  away." 

"A  hansom,"  smiled  Jack. 

"But  there  are  no  cabs  here,  not  one.  I  cannot  leave 
you  like  this — you  must  get  into  the  brougham." 

"Not  for  worlds !  I  have  given  you  quite  enough  trou- 
ble," he  said.  "I  shall  find  my  way  home  somehow." 

"No,"  she  said ;  "I  cannot  let  you  go  without  seeing  you 
safe  into  a  cab.  There  are  none  here.  You  do  not  know 
— I  do  not  know — how  much  you  are  hurt.  You  must 
let  me  take  you  to  your  home." 

"I  assure  you  I  am  all  right,"  he  said. 

"And  I  refuse  to  accept  your  assurance,"  said  Lady  Bell, 
with  a  little  shudder  at  the  streak  of  blood  which  oozed 
from  his  forehead.  "Come,  you  will  not  refuse  to  obey  a 
lady.  I  wish  you  to  enter  my  brougham." 

"No,  I  can't  refuse  to  obey  a  lady,"  he  said. 

"Then  come  with  me,"  said  Lady  Bell. 

"Where  to,  my  lady?"  asked  Jackson,  who  was  used  to 
her  ladyship's  willfulness,  and  sat,  patient  as  Job,  waiting 
for  the  issue  of  this  strange  adventure. 

"To — where  did  you  say?"  asked  Lady  Bell. 

"Spider  Court,"  said  Jack ;  "but  I  wish  you'd  let  me  go 
out  and  walk.  It  must  be  right  out  of  your  way." 


128  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OB, 

'•Spider  Court,  Temple/'  said  Lady  Bell,  and  the 
brougham  rolled  on. 

Through  it  all  Mrs.  Fellowes  had  remained  in  the  deep 
sleep  which  the  gods  vouchsafe  to  good  women  of  her  age, 
and  the  two — Lady  Bell  and  Jack — were,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  alone. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  in  his  corner,  the 
thin,  red  stream  trickling  down  from  his  forehead,  and 
shuddered ;  not  at  him,  but  at  the  blood. 

"How  did  you  come  to  be  run  over?"  she  asked.  "Did 
you  fall?" 

"Must  have  done,"  he  said,  coolly;  "anyway  I'll  swear 
it  wasn't  the  coachman's  fault." 

"I  am  not  going  to  blame  the  coachman/'  said  Lady 
Bell,  with  the  shadow  of  a-  smile. 

"That's  right,"  said  Jack.  "It  was  all  my  fault.  I'd 
been — been  to  see  a  favorite  aunt." 

"You  had  been  to  your  club,"  said  Lady  Bell. 

"How  did  you  know  that  ?"  he  said. 

Lady  Bell  smiled  again,  and  Jack,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
her,  thought  the  smile  wonderfully  fascinating. 

"A  little  bird  told  me,"  she  saJd. 

"The  little  bird  was  right,"  saiu  Jack,  shaking  his  head, 
with  penitence  and  remorse  written  on  every  feature.  "I 
have  been  dining  at  my  club.  Perhaps  the  little  bird  told 
you  everything  else  ?" 

''Yes;  the  little  bird  also  whispered  that  you  had " 

"Drank  too  much  champagne?  Confound  those  fel- 
lows! Wonderful  little  bird!"  muttered  Jack. 

"It  is  very  wicked  of  you,"  said  Lady  Bell,  gravely,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  that,  notwithstanding  its  streak  of 
red,  looked  wonderfully  handsome. 

While  she  looked,  she  almost  convinced  herself  that  she 

had  never  seen  such  a  handsome  face,  nor  such  frank  eyes. 

"It  was  very  wicked  of  you,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice 

pitched  in  a  low  key,  no  doubt  out  of  consideration  for  the 

sleeping  watch  dog. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  bad  lot ;  I  am  not  fit  to  he  here 
with  you.  I  have  been  dining  at  my  club ;  but  how  you 

knew  it,  I  can't  conceive.     And — and " 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  said  Lady  Bell.     "I  am  sorry 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  129 

that  you  should  have  been  run  over,  and  I  hope  you  axe 
not  hurt.  That — that  is  blood  running  down  your  face. 
Why  do  you  not  wipe  it  off?  I  can't  hear  it." 

"1  beg  your  pardon/''  said  Jack,  and  he  fumbled  for  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  which  at  that  moment  was  lying  un- 
der the  seat  in  the  billiard-room. 

"Here,  take  this/'  said  Lady  Bell,  and  she  put  her  own 
delicate  lace-edged  one  in  his  hand. 

Jack  mopped  his  forehead  diligently. 

"Is  it  all  off?"  he  asked. 

"No,  it  keeps  running,"  replied  Lady  Bell,  with  a  little 
thrill  of  horror.  "I  believe  you  axe  much  hurt." 

"I'm  not ;  I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Jack.  "There- — no, 
I'll  keep  it  until  it's  washed."  And  he  thrust  the  delicate 
cobweb  into  his  pocket. 

Lady  Bell  leaned  back,  but  her  eyes  wandered  now  and 
then  to  the  handsome  face,  pale  through  all  its  tan. 

Presently,  wonderfully  soon,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the 
brougham  came  to  a  stop,  and  Jackson,  bending  down  to 
the  window,  said : 

"Spider  Court,  my  lady." 

"Spider  Court,"  said  Jack.  "Then  I'm  home.  I'm 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  and  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  so  much 
ashamed  of  myself.  Hark  !  who's  that  ?"  for  someone  had 
come  to  the  carriage  door. 

"It  is  I — Leonard.     Is  that  you,  Jack  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  and  he  got  out  and  closed  the  door. 
"This  lady " 

Lady  Bell  leaned  out  and  looked  at  Leonard  Dagle's  anx- 
ious face  earnestly. 

"Your  friend  has  met  with  an  accident,"  she  said,  "and 
I  have  brought  him  home." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  sighed  Leonard. 

"I  hope  he  is  not  much  hurt,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "His 
forehead  is  cut.  Will  you — will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let 
me  know  if  it  is  anything  serious  ?" 

"Anything  serious!  A  mere  scratch,"  ejaculated  Jack, 
carelessly. 

But  Lady  Bell  did  not  look  at  him. 

"Here  is  my  card,"  she  said,  taking  a  card-case  from 


.130  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OB, 

the  carriage  basket.  "Will  you  please  let  me  know? 
tfood-night." 

And  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Leonard  did  not  see  it,  and  merely  raised  his  hat.  But 
jack,  who  was  nearest,  took  the  hand  and  held  it  for  a 
moment. 

"Good-night,  good-night,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  for- 
give myself  for  causing  you  trouble." 

And  in  his  earnestness  his  hand,  quite  unconsciousl}', 
closed  tightly  on  her  white,  warm  palm. 

Lady  Bell  dropped  back  into  her  seat,  a  warm  flush 
spreading  over  her  face;  and  Mrs.  Fellowes,  awakened  by 
the  stopping  of  the  brougham,  exclaimed,  with  a  yawn : 

"Home  at  last !" 

"Xo,  miles  away,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "Go  to  sleep  again, 
mv  dear." 

Leonard  took  Jack's  arm  within  his,  though  there  was 
.no  occasion  for  it,  for  Jack  was  sober  enough  now,  and 
led  him  upstairs. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  he  exclaimed,  reproachfully,  "what 
have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"Falling  under  a  cab,"  said  Jack,  gravely. 

"A  cab!"  retorted  Leonard;  "a  lady's  brougham,  you 
mean !" 

And  he  took  the  card  to  the  light. 

"Why !"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  expression  of  amazement. 
"Lady  Isabel  Earlsley !  Good  Heaven  !  that's  the  heiress." 

"Eh?"  said  Jack,  indifferently.  "What's  her  name? 
Bhe's  a  brick,  if  ever  there  was  one.  Oh,  Jupiter.  I  wish  I 
was  in  bed!" 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

It  was  Una's  first  night  in  London.  Weary  as  she  was 
she  could  not  find  sleep;  the  dull  roar  of  the' great  city- 
winch  those  who  are  used  to  take  no  heed  of — rang  in  her 
ears  and  kept  her  awake.  Her  brain  was  busy,  too;  and 
even  as  she  closed  her  eyes  the  endless  questions,  which  the 

•ange  events  of  the  day  had  given  birth  to,  pursued  and 

tormented  her.     She  could  scarcely  realize  that  she  had 

:  Warden  Forest,  that  she  was  here  in  London,  the 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  131 

place  of  her  most  ardent  dreams  !  And  then  how  singular, 
how  mysterious  was  that  coincidence  which  had  brought  it 
about. 

Until  Jack  Newcombe,  the  young  stranger,  had  com; 
Warden,  she  had  never  heard  the  name  of  Davenant,  and 
now  she  was  actually  living  under  the  roof  of  Stephen 
Davenant' s  mother. 

With  half-closed  eyes  she  recalled  all  that  Jack  had  said 
about  Stephen  Davenant,  and  it  did  not  require  much 
effort  to  recall  anything  Jack  had  said,  for  every  word  was 
graven  on  her  heart,  and  it  had  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  had 
spoken  disparagingly  of  this  Stephen,  and  had  implied 
that  he  was  not  as  good  as  he  was  supposed  to  be. 

She  herself,  as  she  lay,  her  beautiful  head  pillowed  on 
her  round  white  arm,  was  conscious  of  a  strange  feeling 
which  had  taken  possession  of  her  in  Stephen's  presence — 
not  of  dislike,  but  something  of  doubt,  something  also  of  a 
vague  fear. 

And  yet  he  could  not  but  be  good  and  generous,  for 
was  it  not  to  him  that  she  owed  all  that  had  happened  to 
her?  And  did  not  his  mother,  the  timid,  gentle  woman 
who  had  already  won  Una's  heart,  speak  of  him  as  great 
and  good  ? 

Alas !  and  a  faint  flush  stole  over  her  cheek,  and  a  long 
sigh  stole  from  her  lips — alas !  it  was  that  other — Jack 
Newcombe — who  was  bad;  it  was  he  whom  she  was  to 
avoid. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  that  she  was  in  the  very  city  of 
her  dreams,  she  fell  asleep  with  a  vague  sadness  in  her 
heart. 

Quiet  as  Walmington  Square  is,  the  noise  of  the  market 
carts  passing  to  Covent  Garden  awoke  her  soon  after  dawn. 

She  looked  round  with  a  stare  of  amazement  as  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  dainty  room,  with  its  costly  furniture  and 
rich  hangings,  and  listened  for  a  moment,  as  if  expecting 
to  hear  the  rustle  of  the  great  oaks  which  surrounded  the 
cottage  at  Warden;  then  she  remembered  the  change  that 
had  befallen  her,  and  springing  out  of  bed,  ran  to  the 
window. 

All  the  square  was  asleep ;  the  blinds  were  closely  drawi) 


132  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

in  all  the  houses,  and  only  the  birds  on  the  trees  seemed 
thoroughly  awake. 

She  could  hear  the  market  carts  rumbling  in  the  great 
thoroughfare  beyond,  and  as  she  had  gone  asleep  with  the 
rattle  of  wheels  in  her  ears,  she  asked  herself,  wonder- 
ingly : 

"Does  London  never  rest?" 

She  remembered  that  Mrs.  Davenant  had  showed  her  a 
bathroom  communicating  by  a  door  from  her  own  room, 
and  then — with  her  cold  water  was  as  necessary  as  air — 
went  and  had  her  bath;  then  she  dressed  herself,  and, 
opening  her  door,  went  downstairs. 

To  her  amazement,  all  the  house  seemed  wrapped  in 
slumber. 

At  home,  at  the  cottage  at  Warden,  Gideon  and  all  of 
them  were  up  with  the  lark,  and  life  began  with  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

She  stole  into  the  drawing-room,  and,  unfastening  the 
shutters  with  some  little  difficulty,  opened  the  window  and 
leaned  out  to  breathe  the  fresh  air ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  the 
air  was  asleep,  too,  or,  in  its  journey  from  the  country, 
had  lost  itself  in  the  maze  of  houses,  and  failed  to  reach 
Walmington  Square. 

Una  looked  out  dreamily,  wondering  who  and  what  sort 
of  people  lived  in  the  huge  blocks  of  dwellings  that  sur- 
rounded her,  and  wondered,  faintly,  whether  she  could  be 
looking  at  the  spot  where  Jack  ISTewcombe  dwelt. 

She  could  not  guess  that  Jack  had  not  come  back  from 
Hurst.  Leigh  yet,  but  was  waiting  for  the  squire's  funeral. 

Instinctively  she  turned  to  the  table  and  took  up  the  al- 
bum and  went  back  to  the  window  with  the  book  open  at 
the  page  which  contained  Jack's  portrait. 

How  beautiful  the  face  was!  And  yet,  she  thought, 
with  a  warm  glow  in  her  eyes,  that  she  had  seen  it  look 
still  more  beautiful,  as  she  had  looked  down  at  it  the 
morning  he  lay  sleeping  at  her  feet. 

Presently  a  servant  came  into  the  room,  and  startled  at 
the  sight  of  the  white  figure  by  the  window,  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Una, 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  133 

Closing  the  book  she  came  forward  and  held  up  her 
face  to  be  kissed,  as  she  had  always  done  to  Mrs.  Kolfe. 

The  maid — a  pretty  young  girl,  fresh  from  Devonshire 
— stared  at  her  and  looked  half-frightened,  while  a  crim- 
son flush  of  embarrassment  came  into  her  face. 

"Good-morning,  miss,"  she  said,  nervously,  and  hastily 
turned  and  fled. 

Una  looked  after  her  a  moment,  and  pondered;  and  she 
would  have  made  a  superb  study  for  a  painter  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

How  had  she  frightened  the  pretty  girl,  and  why  had  she 
declined  to  kiss  her  ? 

Una  could  not  understand  it.  Hitherto  she  had  lived 
only  with  equals,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  guess  that 
it  was  a  breach  of  the  proprieties  to  kiss  this  pretty,  daint- 
ily-dressed little  hand-maiden. 

As  for  Mary,  the  maid,  she  flew  into  the  kitchen  and 
sank  into  a  chair,  gasped  at  the  cook,  speechless  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"What  do  you  think,  cook  ?"  she  exclaimed,  "that  young 
lady — Una,  as  the  mistress  calls  her — is  up  already.  I 
found  her  in  the  drawing-room,  and — and  she  said  'Good- 
morning/  and  came  up  to  me  as  if  she — she  wanted  me  to 
kiss  her." 

"You  must  be  out  of  your  mind,  Mary,"  said  the  cook, 
sternly. 

But  Mary  stuck  to  her  assertion,  and  at  last  it  was 
decided  that  Una  was  either  out  of  her  mind,  or  that  she 
was  no  lady. 

"And  that  I  am  sure  she  is,"  exclaimed  Mary,  and  the 
other  servants  assented  heartily.  "If  there  ever  was  a 
true  lady,  this  one  is,  whoever  or  whatever  she  may  be. 
Perhaps  she's  just  come  from  boarding-school." 

But  the  cook  scoffed  at  the  idea. 

"Boarding-school !"  she  exclaimed  incredulously.  "Do 
you  think  they  don't  know  the  difference  between  mistress 
and  servants  there?  It's  the  first  thing  that  is  taught 
them." 

Meanwhile,  quite  unconscious  of  the  discussion  which 
her  ingenuous  conduct  had  caused,  Una  wandered  about 
the  room,  examining,  with  unstinted  curiosity,  the  eiquis- 


134  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OE, 

ite  china  and  valuable  paintings,  the  Collard  and  Collard 
grand  piano,  and  the  handsomely-bound  books. 

An  hour  or  two  passed  in  this  way ;  then  she  heard  a  bell 
ring  and  Mary  entered,  and,  eying  her  shyly,  said: 

"Mistress  says  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  step  up  to  her 
room,  miss." 

Una  went  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Mrs.  Davenant's 
door,  and  in  answer  to  the  "come  in,"  entered,  and  found 
Mrs.  Davenant  in  the  hands  of  her  maid  Janet. 

Una  crossed  the  room  with  her  swift,  light  step,  and 
kissed  the  face  turned  up  to  her  with  a  timid,  questioning 
smile  on  it. 

"My  child,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Davenant,  "have  you  been 
up  all  night?  I  sent  Janet  to  your  room  to  help  you 
dress." 

Una  started,  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  face. 

"To  help  me  dress?"  she  repeated,  Janet  regarding  her 
with  wide  open  eyes  the  while.  "Why  should  she  do 
that  ?  I  have  always  dressed  myself  ever  since  I  can  re- 
member." 

Mrs.  Davenant  flushed  nervously. 

"I — meant  to  brush  your  hair  and  tie  your  ribbons — as 
she  does  mine ;  but  it  does  not  matter  if  you  would  rather 
not  have  her." 

"I  should  not  like  to  trouble  her,"  said  Una. 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  up,  my  dear  ?" 

"Since  five,"  said  Una,  quietly. 

Mrs.  Davenant  stared  aghast,  and  Janet  nearly  dropped 
the  hair-brush. 

"Since  five!  My  dear  child!  Ah!  I  see,  you — you 
have  been  used  to  rising  early.  I  am  afraid  you  will  soon 
lose  that  good  habit.  We  Londoners  don't  rise  with  the 
lark." 

'I  don't  think  there  are  any  larks  here,"  remarked  Una, 
gravely ;  "and  at  this  time  of  the  year  the  lark  begins  to 
sing  at  four.  I  have  often  watched  him  rise  from  his  nest 
in  the  grass." 

"5Jy,P°°?  child>  y™  will  miss  the  country  so  much." 

No  said  Una ;  "I  am  so  anxious  to  see  the  world,  you 
know." 

"Well,  we  will  begin  today." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  135 

"Una,  you  know  I  wish  you  to  be  quite — to  bo  very 
happy  with  me.  And — and  I  hope  if  there  is  anything 
that  you  want  you  will  ask  for  it  without  hesitation." 

"Anything  I  want  ?"  repeated  Una,  with  a  smile.  "Is  it 
possible  that  any  one  could  want  anything  more  than  is 
here?  There  seems  to  be  everything.  I  was  thinking,  as 
you  spoke,  of  what  my  father  would  say  if  he  saw  this 
table,  with  all  the  things  to  eat,  and  the  silver  and  glass." 

"My  dear  child,  this  is  nothing.  I  live  very  simply.  If 
you  saw,  as  you  will  see,  some  of  the  homes  of  the  wealthy, 
some  of  the  homes  of  the  aristocracy,  you  would  discover 
that  wftat  you  deem  luxury  is  merely  comfort." 

"I  was  never  uncomfortable  at  the  cottage,"  said  Una, 
gravely. 

"That  is  because  you  were  unused  to  anything  better, 
and — and — you  must  not  speak  of  the  past  life  too  much, 
Una.  I  mean  to  strangers.  Strangers  are  so  curious,  and 
— and  my  son,  Stephen,  does  not  wish  everyone  to  know 
where  you  come  from  and  how  you  lived." 

"Does  he  not  ?  Well,  I  will  not  speak  of  it ;  but  I  do  not 
understand — quite " 

"Neither  do  I.  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  always  understand 
Stephen ;  but — but  I  always  do  as  he  tells  me." 

And  she  looked  up  with  the  anxious,  questioning  expres- 
sion which  Una  noticed  was  always  present  when  Stephen 
Davenant  was  mentioned.  Was  Mrs.  Davenant  afraid  of 
her  son? 

Una  mused  for  a  minute  in  silence ;  then  she  looked  up 
and  said : 

.   "I  ought  to  do  what  Mr.  Stephen  wishes.    Do  you  know 
what  he  wants  me  to  do?" 

"You  are  to  be  companion  to  me,  my  dear." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  fairy  tales,"  she  said;  "but  I  have 
never  read  one  more  strange  and  beautiful  than  this." 

"Let  me  show  you  how  to  put  on  your  gloves,  dear,"  she 
said.  "Yes,  you  have  got  a  small  hand,  and  a  beautifully- 
shaped  one,  too.  Strange,  small  hands  are  a  sure  sign  of 
high  birth." 

"Perhaps  I  am  a  princess  in  disguise.  No!  I  am  a 
woodman's  daughter  in  the  disguise  of  a  princess,  that 
is  it." 


136  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"You  are  not  ashamed  of  being  a  woodman's  daughter, 
Una,"  she  said;  "but  yet— perhaps  the  time  will  come 
when  you  will ' 

Una's  opened-eyed  surprise  stopped  her. 

"Ashamed?"  she  echoed,  with  mild  astonishment. 
"Why?" 

"I— I  don't  know.  Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Davenant,  as  the  brougham  stopped. 

"You  are  a  strange  child,  and — and  you  say  such 
strange  things  so  naturally  that  I  am  puzzled  to  know  how 
to  speak  to  you." 

CHAPTEE  XIX. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  Mrs.  Davenant  grew  to  under- 
stand more  fully  the  innocent  but  frank  and  brave  nature 
of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  her  son  Stephen  had  so  strange- 
ly committed  to  her  charge;  grew  to  understand  and  to 
lore  her,  and,  bit  by  bit,  her  nervousness  and  timidity  wore 
off  in  Una's  presence.  Insensibly  she  grew  to  lean  and 
fely  on  the  girl,  who,  with  all  her  innocence  and  ignorance 
of  the  world,  was  so  gently  calm  and  self-possessed,  and 
Una,  in  return,  lavished  her  love  Upon  the  timid,  shrink- 
ing Woman. 

Mrs.  Davenant  had  heard  no  word  from  Stephen;  she 
was  accustomed  to  such  silence,  and  almost  dreaded  to 
hear,  lest  it  should  be  a  message  tearing  Una  from  her 
side.  She  did  not  know  that  Stephen  was  master  of  Hurst 
Leigh  and  ill  the  immense  wealth  of  Ealph  Davenant. 

Una  did  not  know  that  Jack  Newcombe  was  back  here  in 
London,  almost  within  half  an  hour  of  her.  When  she 
thought  of  her  father  and  mother  there  in  Warden,  it  was 
always  with  the  confident  trust  that  they  were  well,  for 
she  felt  that  if  it  were  otherwise,  Gideon  would  somehow 
let  her  know.  She  was  quite  ignorant  that  the  cottage 
was  empty  and  deserted. 

Indeed,  there  was  not  much  time  for  thought.       Day 

nftor  rlay  brought  its  succession  of  wonderful  sights  and 

--  as  the  little  green  brougham  bore  them  about 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  137 

town,  and  Mrs.  Davenant  showed  her  all  the  marvels  of 
the  great  city. 

Una  was  dazzled,  bewildered  sometimes;  but  her  in- 
stinctive good  taste  helped  her  to  keep  back  all  extrav- 
agant expressions  of  surprise  on  her  voyage  through  Fairy- 
land. 

One  day,  however,  an  exclamation  of  delight  escaped 
her,  as  she  came  in  sight  of  a  jeweler's  window,  opposite 
which  the  brougham  had  stopped. 

To  her  who  had  only  read  of  precious  stones,  and  re- 
garded them  as  objects  almost  fabulous,  the  window  looked 
as  if  it  contained  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  and  of  Aladdin's 
palace  combined. 

They  entered  and  Mrs.  Davenant  asked  to  see  some 
ladies'  watches,  selected  one  and  a  handsome  albert,  and, 
with  a  smile,  arranged  them  at  Una's  waist,  in  which,  to 
her  equal  amazement,  she  found  a  pocket  already  provided. 

Pale  with  emotion,  she  could  not  utter  a  word,  and  to 
hide  the  tears  that  sprang  into  her  eyes,  turned  aside  to 
look  at  a  case  containing  a  magnificent  set  of  brilliants. 
The  jeweler  politely  unlocked  the  case,  and  placed  the 
bracelet  in  her  hand. 

"A  really  magnificent  set.  It  is  sold.  They  were  pur- 
chased by  Lady  Isabel  Earlsley." 

"Lady  Earlsley/'  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Ah,  yes;  she 
is  fond  of  diamonds,  is  she  not  ?" 

"Yes,  and  of  other  precious  stones,  too,  madam.  She 
has  excellent  taste  and  discrimination.  Perhaps  you  have 
seen  her  set  of  sapphires  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  in  her  quiet  way,  "I  have 
met  Lady  Earlsley,  but  I  have  not  seen  them." 

The  jeweler  opened  an  iron  safe,  and  took  out  a  case 
containing  a  superb,  a  unique  set  of  sapphires,  and  handed 
them  to  her. 

"This  is  it — I  have  it  to  alter.  They  are  the  purest  in 
the  world — finer  even  than  her  ladyship's  rubies,  which  are 
considered,  but  wrongly,  matchless." 

Una  stared  open-eyed,  and  the  jeweler,  pleased  by  her 
enthusiasm  and  admiration,  took  the  set  from  its  case  and 
laid  it  in  her  hands. 

As  Una  was  bending  over  them  fascinated,  a  handsome 


138  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OB, 

carriage  drew  up,  and  the  shop  door  was  opened  by  a  foot- 
man in  rich  livery. 

Una  looked  up,  and  saw  a  beautiful  girl  who,  pausing  in 
the  doorway,  stood  regarding  her. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  girls  met,  Una's  with  an  instant 
frank  admiration  in  her  calm  depths — a  curious,  half- 
amazed,  but  also  admiring  stare  in  the  bright,  dark  eyes 
of  the  other. 

The  jeweler  glanced  from  the  new-comer  to  the  gems 
in  Una's  lap,  and  changed  color.  Mrs.  Davenant  started 
nervously,  and  turned  pale. 

With  a  quick,  bird-like,  but  thoroughly  graceful  move- 
ment, the  richly-dressed  lady  turned,  and  with  a  smile  of 
recognition,  bowed. 

"Mrs. "  she  said,  and  hesitated. 

"Davenant,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "How  do  you  do, 
Lady  Earlsley?" 

Lady  Isabel  Earlsley,  the  great  heiress  and  queen  of 
fashion,  held  out  her  hand  in  her  quick,  impulsive  way, 
but  turned  her  quick  glance  on  Una,  whose  eyes  had  never 
left  the  dark,  bewitching  face. 

"Your  daughter,  Mrs.  Davenant?" 

Poor  Mrs.  Davenant  trembled  with  nervous  agitation. 

"No — no — a  young  friend,  Miss  Kolfe,"  she  answered, 
tremulously. 

Lady  Bell  went  straight  up  to  Una  and  held  out  her 
hand,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  now  flushed  face. 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  she  said,  in  the  almost  blunt  fashion , 
which  her  admirers   declared   so   charming,   and  which, 
though  envious  tongues  declared  an  affectation,  was  a  per- 
fectly natural  consequence  of  her  early  life. 

Una  put  her  hand  in  the  delicate  white  gloved  one,  and 
the  two  women  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  , 

Was  it  possible  at  that  moment  that  some  prophetic 
instinct  whispered  to  the  heart  of  each  that  the  threads  of 
both  their  lives  were  doomed  to  be  entangled  together? 
v     j  3.  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  in  her 

land  the  jewels  belonging  to  this  young  lady,  and  with  a 
grave  smile  she  put  them  back  in  their  case. 

You  are  looking  at  my  sapphires,  I  see,"  said  Lady 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  13!> 

Bell,  in  a  tone  which,  set  the  soul  of  the  alarmed  jeweler 
at  rest.  "Do  you  admire  them?  Are  they  fine,  do  you 
think?" 

Una  smiled. 

"I  do  not  know.  They  are  very  beautiful.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  them  before." 

"Really,"  said  Lady  Bell,  with  a  nod;  "I  don't  care  for 
them.  They  don't  suit  me;  there  is  not  enough  color  in 
them."  Then,  turning  to  the  jeweler,  she  said,  in  that 
quiet  tone  of  command  which  for  the  first  time  fell  upon 
Una's  ears :  "Give  me  the  rubies,  please." 

The  man  hastened  to  hand  her  a  case  from  the  safe, 
and  Lady  Bell  placed  the  contents  in  Una's  lap. 

"Ah !"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as  Una's  eyes  opened  wide 
with  admiration,  at  once  childish  and  yet  dignified,  "you 
are  of  my  opinion,  too.  But  the  sapphires  would  suit  you 
best.  I  wish  I  were  your  husband." 

Una  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  grave  astonishment ;  and 
Lady  Bell  turned  with  a  light  laugh  to  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"How  puzzled  she  looks  !  I  mean,"  she  went  on  to  Una, 
"that  if  I  were  your  husband  I  would  give  you  the  sapphire 
set ;  though  a  lover  would  be  more  suitable,  would  it  not  ?" 

Then  seeing  Una's  grave,  open-eyed  wonder,  Lady  Bell 
turned  to  Mrs.  Davenant,  and  in  a  low  tone,  said : 

"Who  is  she,  Mrs.  Davenant  ? — has  she  just  come  out  of  a 
convent?  She  is  simply  lovely;  her  eyes  haunt  me — who 
is  she?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  stammered,  and  fidgeted  speechlessly. 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Bell,  quickly,  in  the  same  low  tone. 
"You  think  I'm  rude  and  ill-bred.  They  all  do  when  I 
ask  a  simple  question,  or  show  the  slightest  interest  in 
anything."  She  glanced  at  Una  lingeringly :  "I  mustn't 
ask,  I  suppose?" 

"I — I — she  is  new  to  London,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "It 
is  her  first  day " 

"Her  first  day !"  echoed  Lady  Bell,  her  eyes  twinkling. 
"Do  you  mean  that  she  was  never  in  London  before  ?  How 
I  envy  her;  I  who  am  sick  and  weary  of  it!  Yes,  the 
glamour  is  on  her j  I  can  see  it  in  her  eyes — on  her  face. 
She  is  like  some  beautiful  wild  bird  who  has  settled  on  an 
inhabited  island  for  the  first  time,  and  is  marveling  at  the 


140  ONLY  OXE  LOVE:  OS, 

strange  sights  and  faces — look  at  her!"  and  she  touched 
Mrs.  Davenant's  arm. 

Una,  quite  unconscious  of  their  scrutiny,  was  sitting 
looking  dreamily  into  the  street  with  its  ceaseless  throng 
of  carriages  and"  people.  Lady  Bell  had  hit  upon  a  happy 
simile;  she  looked  like  some  beautiful  bird,  half  stupefied 
by  the  strange  life  moving  around  her. 
"  Mrs.  Davenant  rose ;  but  Lady  Bell,  with  a  gentle  press- 
ure, forced  her  back  into  her  seat. 

"Not  this  minute;  leave  her  for  a  minute.  See  what  a 
beautiful  picture  she  makes !  New  to  London !  Do  you 
know  what  will  happen  when  London  finds  that  she  is  in 
its  midst?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  helplessly.  She,  too,  looked 
like  a  bird — like  some  frightened  pigeon  in  the  clutch  of 
a  glittering  hawk. 

"You  can't  guess,"  went  on  Lady  Bell,  with  a  smile. 
"Well,  it  will  make  a  queen  of  her — all  London  will  be  at 
her  feet  within  a  month,  and  I — I  shall  be  dethroned." 

The  last  few  words  were  spoken — murmured — almost 
inaudible,  and  in  a  tone  that  was  half  sad,  half  mocking. 
But  suddenly  her  mood  changed ;  and  with  a  smile  that  lit 
up  her  face,  and  seemed  to  dance  like  a  flash  of  sunlight 
from  eyes  to  lips  and  back  again,  she  said : 

"At  any  rate  be  mine  the  credit  of  discovering  her.  I  am 
the  first  at  the  shrine  of  the  new  goddess !"  and  touching 
Una's  hand  with  the  top  of  her  gloved  finger,  she  said: 
"Miss  Rolfe,  Mrs.  Davenant  has  been  kind  enough  to 
promise  to  come  and  see  me  tomorrow  night.  Are  you 
fond  of  dancing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Una,  with  a  smile.  "I  do  not  know 
how  to  dance " 

^Heavens !"  murmured  Lady  Bell. 

forget'  Lady  Bell>"  murmured  poor  Mrs.  Davenant. 
yes'  ?es;  T  remember,"  said  Lady  Bell,  hastily, 
you  will  come  and  see  how  you  like  it,  won't  you ?" 
Una  looked  at  Mrs.  Davenant  inquiringly,  and  Ladv  Bell 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  impatiently. 

JJQ       ;  say  1T«,'  prav<  Mrs  Davenant,"  she  said,  with 
'  dark>  bn8nt  eyes.    "I  have  set  my  heart  upon  it,  and  a 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  Ill 

disappointment  is  intolerable.  Besides,  why  should  you  say 
'No?'  You  would  like  to  come?" 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  come/'  said  Una  gravely. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  her  as  if  fascinated. 

"From  a  convent,  certainly,"  she  murmured. 

"Then  it's  settled.  Eemember!  I  shall  look  for  you — 
shall  wait  for  you  with  impatience.  Mrs.  Davenant,  I 
count  upon  you." 

"But — but  I  cannot  go  out,  Lady  Earlsley — I  am  in 
mourning." 

Lady  Bell  sighed  impatiently. 

"I  am  so  sorry  !  I  have  never  set  my  heart  upon  anything 
so  much  in  my  life,"  she  said.  "Something  tells  me  that 
we  shall  be  great  friends !  Are  you  fond  of  jewels,  lace, 
books  ? — what  are  you  specially  fond  of  ?"  And  she  seemed 
to  dazzle  Una  with  her  smile.  "You  shall  see  them  all — 
everything.  Yes,  let  her  come,  and  I  will  take  such  care  of 
her  as  if  she  were  something  too  precious  to  be  touched ;  she 
shall  not  leave  my  side  all  the  evening.  Let  her  come, 
Mrs.  Davenant !" 

Mrs.  Davenant  paled  and  flushed  in  turn.  What  would 
Stephen  say — would  he  be  displeased  or  gratified?  What 
should  she  do?  She  could  not  resist  the  half-imploring, 
half-commanding  eyes  which  Lady  Bell  flashed  upon  her, 
and  at  last  murmured  a  frightened  "Yes." 

With  a  smile  that  seemed  to  set  the  diamonds  scintillat- 
ing, Lady  Bell  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Davenant,  and  tak- 
ing Una's,  held  it  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then,  with  a 
sudden  gravity,  she  said : 

"Good-bye.  I  will  take  care  of  you.  I  will  be  your 
chaperon.  We  shall  meet  again,"  and  was  gone. 

So  interested  and  absorbed  had  she  been  in  Una  that  she 
had  quite  forgotten  her  purpose  in  entering  the  shop,  and 
had  gone  without  another  word  to  the  jeweler. 

He  showed  no  surprise,  however,  but  smiled  complacently 
as  he  put  the  jewels  back  into  their  cases,  being  quite  used 
to  Lady  Bell's  vagaries,  and  he  bowed  Mrs.  Davenant  and 
Una  out  with  increased  respect  and  deference. 

Lady  Bell,  attended  by  the  two  footmen,  entered  her 
carriage,  and  Mrs.  Fellowes,  her  friend  and  companion, 


142  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  :  OK, 

who   had  been   sleeping  peacefully,   awoke   with    a   little 

start. 

"Well,  my  dear,  have  you  got  the  rubies  ?" 

"The  rubies?''  said  Lady  Bell.  "No,  I  quite  forgot 
them/" 

"Forgot  them  !"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes. 

"Yes.  What  are  stupid  rubies  compared  with  an  angel?'' 

"My  dear  Lady  Bell  F  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fellows,  "what 
are  you  talking  about  ?" 

Lady  Bell  leaned  back  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
and  her  eyes  musingly  staring  at  nothing. 

"Yes,  an  angel,"  she  repeated.  "I  never  believed  in  them 
until  today,  but  I  have  seen  one  this  morning — in  a  jew- 
eler's shop." 

"Lady  Bell,  how  strangely  you  talk.  I  am  getting 
alarmed." 

"You  always  are,"  said  Lady  Bell,  coolly.  "I  repeat, 
I  have  seen  an  angel.  You  are  always  trying  to  flatter  me 
by  talking  of  my  beauty  and  such  nonsense;  but  I  have 
seen  today  a  real  beauty.  Not  a  mere  pretty  pet  mortal 
like  myself,  but  one  of  the  celestials !  With  eyes  like  a  wild 
bird's,  and  a  lady,  too,  I'll  be  sworn !" 

"My  dear  Bell,  what  language!"  murmured  Mrs.  Fel- 
lowes. 

"A  perfect  lady;  her  hands,  her  voice  would  vouch  for 
that.  Her  voice  is  like  a  harp.  If  I  had  been  a  man  I 
should  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot." 

_  "Fallen  in  love,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes.  "My  dear  Bell," 
with  a  politely  suppressed  yawn,  "I  am  half  inclined  to 
think  you  have  taken  leave  of  your  senses,  and  you  will 
drive  me  out  of  mine.  One  night  it  is  a  young  man  whom 
we  nearly  run  over ;  a — I  must  say — a  tipsy  young  man." 

"No ;  he  had  only  taken  too  much  wine." 


"Well,  if  that  isn't  being  tipsy 

"Don't,  don't,"  said  Lady  Bell,  pl« 


_._,  ___,  pleadingly;  "we  might 
have  killed  him." 

T  don't  know  that  he  would  have  been  much  loss  to  the 
world  at  large,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes. 

"Home !"  said  Lady  Bell  to  the  footman ;  and  she  sank 
back  with  a  brilliant  flush  on  her  face. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  143 

Mrs.  Davenant  drove  home  also,  and  in  considerable  per- 
turbation. What  had  she  done ?  What  would  Stephen  say? 

Fortunately  for  that  young  man's  peace  of  mind,  he  was 
resting  at  ease  at  Hurst  Leigh,  little  dreaming  that  Lady 
Bell,  or  any  one  else,  would  meet  Una,  and  coax  her  out  of 
his  mother's  nerveless  hands. 

Una,  with  quick  sympathy,  saw  that  her  companion  was 
distressed,  and  with  a  gentle  touch  of  her  hand,  said : 

"You  do  not  like  me  to  go  to  this  lady's  house.  I  will 
not  go.  No ;  I  will  not  go." 

"My  dear,"  she  replied,  with  a  sigh,  "it  isn't  in  our 
hands  now.  You  don't  know  Lady  Bell — nor  do  I  very 
well ;  but  I  know  enough  of  her  to  be  convinced  that  if  you 
do  not  go  tomorrow  night,  she  would  come  and  fetch 
you,  though  she  left  all  her  guests  to  do  so." 

"Is  she  then  so — so  accustomed  to  having  her  own  way  ?" 

"Always;  she  always  has  her  own  way.  She  is  rich — 
very,  very  rich — and  petted;  and  she  is  even  more  than 
that ;  she — she — I  don't  know  how  to  explain  myself.  Well, 
my  dear,  she  is  a  sort  of  queen  of  society,  and  more  pow- 
erful than  many  real  queens." 

"So  that  when  she  commands  such  as  I  am  I  must  obey," 
said  Una,  with  her  low,  musical  laugh. 

"Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  a  sigh.  "But  yov 
will  be  careful,  my  dear.  I  mean,  don't — don't  let  her  put 
you  forward,  remind  her  of  her  promise  to  keep  you  at  her 
side." 

"I  think  I  would  rather  not  go." 

"Don't  be  frightened,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant, 
kindly ;  but  Una's  calm,  steady  look  of  response  showed  her 
that  there  was  no  fear  in  the  young,  innocent'heart. 

"No,  I  am  not  frightened,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  know 
what  I  am  to  fear." 

Having  consented  to  Una's  going,  Mrs.  Davenant  lost  no 
time  in  making  the  few  necessary  preparations.  She  se- 
lected a  plain  but  rich  evening  dress,  set  her  own  maid  to 
make  the  required  alterations,  selected  from  her  own  store 
a  sort  of  old  Honiton,  and  gave  orders  that  some  white 
flowers  should  be  bought  at  Covent  Garden  the  next 
morning. 

"White  flowers,  my  dear,"  she  said,  nervously.    "Because 


144  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OE, 

I I  am  Dot  sure  that  Stephen  would  not  consider  that 

your  being  in  the  house  with  me  you  are  not  in  mourning. 
But,  then,  you  are  no  relation,  my  dear." 
"I  wish  I  were,"  said  Una,  kissing  her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  evening  the  quiet-looking  green 
brougham  came  round  to  the  door,  and  took  them  rapidly 
to  Park  Lane. 

Una  had  already  grown  almost  weary  of  staring  out  of 
the  carriage  window,  but  her  wonder  and  interest  revived 
as  she  saw  in  the  dusky  twilight  the  green  trees  and  flowers 
in  the  most  beautiful  park  in  the  world,  and  amazed  at  the 
magnificent  buildings  past  which  they  rolled. 

Presently  the  brougham  drew  up  at  a  corner  house  facing 
the  park;  an  awning  was  suspended  from  the  gateway  to 
the  pavement,  and  three  footmen  in  splendid  liveries,  which 
she  recognized  as  those  she  had  seen  worn  by  the  servants 
attending  Lady  Bell's  carriage,  were  standing  to  receive 
the  guests ;  one  of  them  opened  the  brougham  door  and  es- 
corted them  into  the  hall,  which  seemed  to  Una,  with  its 
flowers  and  mirrors,  its  rich  hangings  and  statues,  a  fairy 
palace,  and  was  about  to  usher  them  into  the  drawing-room, 
when,  upon  hearing  Mrs.  Davenant's  name,  he  bowed,  and 
took  them  into  a  small  room  at  the  side,  which  was  Lady 
Bell's  boudoir. 

"I  will  tell  her  ladyship,"  he  said. 
Una  had  scarcely  time  to  take  in  the  exquisite  beauty  of 
the  room,  with  its  antique  furniture  and  costly  knicknacks, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Bell  entered.  She  was 
exquisitely  dressed ;  diamonds — the  diamonds  Una  had  seen 
at  the  jeweler's — glittering  in  her  hair  and  on  her  neck 
and  on  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  Una  like  some  vision 
which  at  a  breath  would  vanish  and  leave  the  room  to  its 
subdued  twilight  again. 

With  outstretched  hands  she  came  toward  them,  with 
her  eyes  dancing  and  her  cheeks  flushed. 

You  have  kept  your  word  and  brought  my  wild  bird ! 

knew  you  would  come,"  and  she  took  a  hand'  of  each,  but 

suddenly  reached  up  and  kissed  Una.    "Yes,  I  felt  that  you 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  145 

would  come,  but  it  is  good  of  you  all  the  same,  and  to 
show  you  that  I  am  grateful,  I  will  let  you  go  at  once,  this 
minute,  dear  Mrs.  Davenant !" 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  relieved. 

"Thank  you !  thank  you,  Lady  Bell !"  she  said.  "You — 
you " 

"Will  take  care  of  your  bird?  Yes,  that  I  will.  You 
may  trust  her  to  me;  not  a  feather  shall  be  ruffled." 

Mrs.  Davenant  murmured  something  about  the  time  she 
would  come  for  her,  and  then  with  a  timid  look  from  one 
to  the  other  was  gone. 

"And  now,"  said  Lady  Bell,  "let  me  look  at  you,"  as  if 
she  had  not  been  doing  so  ever  since  she  entered  the  room. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  you  are "  she  stopped  short.  "No, 

I'll  not  be  the  first  to  teach  you  vanity.  But  tell  me,  do 
you  ever  look  in  your  glass,  Miss  Eolfe — Miss  Eolfe,  I  don't 
like  that  name,  I  mean  between  you  and  me.  My  name  is 
Bell,  and  yours  is " 

"Mine  is  Una." 

"Una!  That  is  delightful!  And  have  you  your  lion? 
Where  is  he?" 

Una  had  never  read  the  story  of  "Una  and  the  Lion," 
and  looked  calmly  puzzled. 

"Well,  if  you  have  not  one  already,  you  soon  will  have. 
You  don't  understand  me.  I  am  glad  of  that.  But  will 
you  come  now  ?  This  is  a  very,  very  quiet  little  party,  but 
you  may  be  amused.  And  I  will  keep  you  by  my  side  all 
the  evening.  Come,"  and  she  drew  Una's  arm  through  her 
own  white  one  and  led  her  through  the  corridor  into  the 
ball-room. 

It  was  not  a  large  room.  Lady  Bell  detested  huge  and 
crowded  assemblies  too  much  to  permit  them  at  her  own 
house,  but  it  was,  as  a  ball-room,  perfect.  There  was 
light,  and  just  enough  light,  to  show  the  tasteful  magnifi- 
cence of  the  decorations,  and  nothing  of  that  fearful  glare 
from  innumerable  lights,  and  their  reflections  in  huge  mir- 
rors, which  make  most  ball-rooms  so  trying  and  unbearable. 
The  band  had  just  commenced  as  they  entered,  and  the 
whole  scene,  the  beautiful  room  with  its  soft  draperies  of 
Persian  damask,  the  Venetian  mirrors,  the  rich  dresses  of 
the  ladies,  and  the  soul-moving  strains  of  the  best  band  im 


146  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

London,  for  the  moment  overawed  and  startled  the  girl 
fresh  from  the  primeval  forest. 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  dilated  almost  with  fear,  and  she 
unconsciously  drew  back,  but  Lady  Bell,  with  a  gentle 
pressure  of  the  arm,  drew  her  forward,  and  skillfully  avoid- 
ing the  dancers,  took  her  to  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
where,  in  a  recess  lined  with  ferns  and  tropical  plants,  were 
arranged  some  seats  so  placed  as  to  be  almost  hidden  from 
the  room,  while  they  allowed  the  sitter  a  full  view  of  it. 

Lady  Bell  drew  a  fauteuil  still  further  into  the  recess, 
and  playfully  forced  Una  into  it. 

"There,  my  wild  bird,  is  your  cage.  You  can  see  all  the 
world  without  being  seen,  and  here  you  and  I  will  take  a 
peep  at  it.  Now,  don't  you  want  to  know  all  their  names 
and  all  about  them?" 

Una  smiled.  She  was  a  little  pale  and  was  trembling 
slightly. 

"No ;  I  am  too  surprised  and  astonished  at  present.  How 
beautiful  it  is,  and  how  lovely  they  are." 

"The  women?"  said  Lady  Bell,  with  a  laugh,  and  a 
glance  at  the  unconscious  face  beside  her,  which  she  knew 
outshone  all  others  there.  "You  think  so!  Well,  there 
are  some  pretty  women  here.  There  is  Lady  Clarence — 
the  one  in  light  blue  and  swansdown — and  Mrs.  Cantrip — 
she  was  the  beauty  last  season.  You  don't  understand  ?" 

"Last  season !"  said  Una.    "Who  is  the  beauty  this  ?" 

Lady  Bell  laughed  and  flushed  a  little. 

"Never  mind,  child,"  she  said.  "One  who  doesn't  care  a 
farthing  about  it,  at  any  rate.  But  look,  do  you  see  that 
tall  lady  there,  dancing  with  the  short  man  with  whiskers  ? 
She  is  the  Countess  of  Pierrepoint,  and  he  is  the  Duke  of 
Garnum " 

"A  duke  ?"  said  Una,  surprised. 

"You  expected  to  see  a  man  seven  feet  high  in  his  ducal 
robes  ?"  she  said.  "See  those  two  men  who  have  just  come 
in  ?  The  dark  one  is  Sir  Arkroyd  Hetley,  the  other,  the  boy 
--the  baby  they  call  him — is  a  marquis,  the  Marquis  of 
Dalrymple.  They  are  always  together.  They  are  coming 
to  shake  hands  with  me." 

Una  drew  further  into  the  shade  as  the  two  men,  after 
hunting  about  the  room,  came  up  to  the  recess,  and  listened 


WHO  WAS  THE  I1E1K?  1 17 

as  they  paid  their  compliments  and  seemed  anxious  to  re- 
main, but  Lady  Bell  sent  them  oil'  quite  plainly  and  dis- 
tinctly, and  sat  looking  toward  the  door,  and  presently  she 
ceased  talking,  and  her  bright,  beautiful  face  grew  quiet 
and  almost  sad,  certainly  wistful,  and  at  last  she  sighed 
and  murmured : 

"No,  he  will  not  come." 

"Who  will  not  come  ?"  said  Una.  "Are  you  expecting  any 
one  ?" 

"Did  I  speak  ?"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  am  expecting  someone, 
but  he  will  not  come.  People  one  expects  and  wants  never 
do — never  do.  You  will  find  that  out  in  time,  wild  bird ; 
you  will  find — ah !"  and  she  started  and  turned  pale,  and 
her  hand,  which  had  been  laid  on  Una's  arm,  closed  over  it 
with  a  sudden  grip  and  flutter. 

Una  looked  up,  and  her  face  went  deadly  white. 

The  room  seemed  to  spin  round  with  her,  and  the  lights 
to  flood  her  brain  and  paralyze  her,  for  there,  towering 
above  the  throng,  stood  Jack  Newcombe. 

Jack  Newcombe — not  in  his  rough  tweed  suit,  but  in 
evening  dress;  Jack,  not  with  the  frank,  tender,  pleasant 
smile  which  always  rested  upon  his  face  as  it  appeared  in 
her  dreams,  but  with  a  cold,  half-irritable,  and  wholly 
bored  expression. 

Slowly  she  rose  and  glided  into  the  shadow  of  the  recess 
and  hid  herself,  her  heart  beating  wildly,  her  whole  form 
trembling  with  a  strange  ecstasy  of  mingled  fear  and  de- 
light. 

At  last  she  saw  him  again. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Poor  Jack!  How  came  he  to  be  in  Lady  Bell's  ball- 
room? 

The  morning  after  she  had  nearly  driven  over  him  he 
woke  to  find  Leonard  Dagle,  his  friend  and  fellow  lodger, 
standing  beside  his  bed  and  looking  down  at  him  with  a 
grave  smile  on  his  intellectual  face. 

"Hallo !"  said  Jack,  "the  house  on  fire?" 

"Not  at  present,"  said  Leonard,  "though  it  would  soon 
be  if  you  lived  in  it  alone.  Why  don't  you  blow  your 


148  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

candle  out,  and  not  clmck  your  slippers  at  it  ?  How  are 
you  this  morning?" 

"How  am  I?"  said  Jack,  staring.  "How  should  I  be? 
Quite  well  of  course,"  which  was  quite  true,  for  Jack  and 
the  headache  had  not  been  introduced  to  each  other. 

"That's  all  right/'  said  Leonard,  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps 
you  remember  last  night's  tragic  occurrence,  then?" 

Jack  thought  for  a  moment,  then  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"Len,  I'm  an  idiot.  I  always  was.  It's  a  good  job 
idiocy  isn't  catching  or  you'd  have  caught  it  of  me  long 
ago.  I  made  a  confounded  idiot  of  myself  last  night.  It 
was  all  Dalrymple  and  Hetley's  fault,  and  I  wish  they'd 
knock  champagne  off  the  club  wine  list.  Did  I  take  too 
much,  Len?" 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  said  Leonard,  grimly. 

"I'm  afraid  I  did.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  or 
nearly — but  I  didn't  touch  a  card,  Len." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  do  that." 

"No,  a  promise  is  a  promise  with  me,"  said  Jack.  "And 
I  didn't  drink  much,  Len,  'pon  my  honor  ;  but  I  was  upset, 
and  when  a  man  is  upset  he " 

"He  generally  tries  to  get  run  over,"  said  Leonard,  with 
a  smile. 

Jack  stared,  then  he  laughed. 

"By  George!  yes.    I  remember!" 

"But  always  does  not  get  the  luck  to  be  rescued  by  a 
beautiful  young  lady — who  is  an  heiress — and  who,  in- 
stead of  giving  him  in  charge  for  blocking  the  queen's  high- 
way, brings  him  home  in  her  brougham." 

"It  was  a  kind  thing  to  do,  certainly,"  said  Jack,  with  a 
yawn. 

"Kind  is  a  mild  way  of  putting  it,"  remarked  Leonard. 

"It  was  more  than  I  deserved,"  said  Jack ;  "much  more, 
and  she's  a  brick." 

"The  man  who  calls  Lady  Isabel  Earlsley  a  brick  should 
be  a  bold  man." 

At  last  Jack  looked  up,  and  pressing  his  chair  back,  said : 
And  now,  old  man,  let's  hold  a  council  of  war.  Subject 

3  be  considered:  the  future  of  a  young  man  who  has  been 
cut  off  with  a  shilling— by  George!  the  poor  old  fallow 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  14!) 

didn't  even  leave  me  that — who  knows  no  trade,  who  cannot 
dig,  and  to  beg  is  ashamed,  and  who  is  penniless." 

"Quite  penniless,  Jack?"  asked  Leonard. 

Jack  rose,  and  sauntering  to  a  drawer,  pulled  forth  an 
old  tobacco  pouch,  and  pouring  the  contents  on  to  the  table 
proceeded  to  count  the  small — very  small — heap  of  coin. 

"Twenty-one  pounds  six-and-fourpence  farthing — no; 
it's  a  brass  button — and  a  brass  button." 

"Can't  carry  on  this  way  long  with  that  small  amount 
of  ammunition,  Jack." 

"Just  so,  old  Solomon.    Well,  what's  to  be  done  ?" 

"You  might  enlist." 

"Get  shot,  and  break  your  heart.  No,  Fm  too  fond  of 
you,  Len.  Go  on;  anything  else?" 

"Upon  my  word,  you  can't  do  anything." 

"Nary  thing,"  admitted  Jack,  with  frank  candor. 

"What  do  men — well-born  and  high-bred  men  like 
you " 

"What  will  you  take  to  drink?"  said  Jack,  bowing  low. 

"Who  have  no  money,  and  no  brains " 

Jack  bowed  again,  and  pitched  the  sugar  tongs  at  him. 

"What  do  they  do?  They  generally  marry  an  heiress, 
Jack." 

"I  shall  never  marry." 

"I've  heard  that  remark  before.  The  last  it  was  from  a 
man  who  married  a  fortnight  afterward." 

"I'm  not  going  to  marry  in  a  fortnight.    Go  ahead." 

"I've  done,"  said  Leonard  with  a  shrug. 

"Solomon  is  dried  up,"  said  Jack.  "You  don't  keep  a 
large  stock  of  wisdom  on  hand,  old  man." 

"I've  given  you  the  best  I've  got,  and  good  advice  too, 
with  a  foundation  to  go  upon.  Your  heiress  is  ready  to 
your  hand." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Jack. 

Leonard  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  housekeeper  en- 
tered and  brought  him  a  card.  He  looked  at  it ;  it  bore  Lady 
Isabel  Earlsley's  name,  and  on  the  back  was  written : 

"To  inquire  whether  Mr.  Newcombe  was  hurt  last 
night?" 

Leonard  pitched  it  across  the  table,  as  an  answer  to 
Jack's  question. 


150  OXLY  OXH  LOVE;  OR, 

Jack  road  the  card  and  flushed  hotly,  then  threw  it 
down  again. 

Leonard  took  up  a  piece  of  paper,  and  rapidly  wrote : 

"Mr.  Xcwcoinbe's  compliments,  and  he  was  not  in  any 
way  injured  by  last  night's  accident,  which  he  deeply  re- 
grets as  having  caused  Lady  Earlsley  so  much  trouble," 
and  gave  it  to  the  housekeeper. 

"What  have  you  written  ?''  asked  Jack  sulkily. 

"What  you  are  too  much  of  a  bear  to  write,"  said  Leon- 
ard, with  a  smile — "an  answer  and  an  apology.  Jack,  you 
are  a  favorite  of  fortune.  Half  the  men  in  London  would 
give  the  forefinger  of  their  right  hand  to  get  such  a  mes- 
sage from  Lady  Bell.  I  know  her " 

"So  do  I,"  broke  in  Jack,  roughly ;  "I  heard  all  about  her 
at  the  club  last  night.  Hetley  and  Dalrymple  bored  me  to 
death  about  her.  She's  a  great  heiress  and  a  beauty,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  I  know,  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  any 
more." 

Jack  went  up  to  Len  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Forgive  me,  old  fellow;  but  I — my  heart  is  full.  Onlv 
one  woman  in  the  world  has  any  interest  for  me.  and  she 
has  gone — up  to  the  sky  again,  I  suppose.  What  do  I  care 
for  Lady  Bell,  or  Lady  anyone  else?  I  tell  you  I  laid 
awake  half  the  night  thinking  of  that  beautiful  face,  and 
dreamed  of  her  eyes  the  rest  of  the  night ;  and  I'd  give  all 
the  world  if  I  had  it,  to  find  her.  And  much  good  it  would 
do  me  if  I  succeeded  ?  I  couldn't  ask  her  to  share  twenty- 
one  pounds  six  and  a  brass  button !" 

"Forgive  me,  Jack,"  said  Leonard,  quietly.  "I  know 
what  you  mean.  I'm  in  love  myself.  But — but  at  any  rate 
you  can't  treat  Lady  Bell  rudely.  You  must  call  and 
thank  her." 

"Confound  Tier !"  said  Jack,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Leonard  looked  after  him,  and  then  went  on  with  his 
work.  He  saw  no  more  of  him  until  late  in  the  evening, 
when  Jack  came  in  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair  looking 
weary  if  not  exhausted. 

^'What  have  you  been  doing,  Jack?"  asked  Leonard. 
Looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay,"  replied 
Jack,  grimly. 

Leonard  nodded. 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  1-51 

"I've  been  walking  about  ever  since  I  loft  you,  with 
scarcely  a  rest.  I've  walked  through  every  thorough  Lire  in 
London.  I've  looked  into  windows  .and  into  shops.  1  've 
been  warned  off  and  told  to  move  on  by  the  police,  who 
thought  I  was  a  burglar  on  the  search  for  a  job ;  and  here 
I  am  and  there  is  she  as  far  off  as  ever.  And  yet  I  feel- 
Heavens  knows  why — that  she  is  here  in  London.  Len,  if 
you  smile  I  shall  knock  you  down." 

"I  was  never  farther  from  smiling  than  I  am  at  this 
moment,"  said  Leonard  quietly. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  would  do  if — if  the  squire  had  left 
me  any  money?"  went  on  Jack,  fiercely;  "I  would  spend 
every  penny  of  it  in  searching  for  her.  I'd  have  a  hundred 
— a  thousand  detectives  at  work.  I'd  never  give  them  rest 
night  or  day  till  they  found  her." 

"And  then  ?"  said  Leonard. ' 

Jack  groaned  and  lit  his  pipe.    Leonard  looked  at  him. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  to  call  on  Lady  Earlsley,"  he 
said. 

Jack  looked  very  much  as  if  he  really  meant  to  knock 
him  down,  and  marched  off  to  bed. 

When  he  came  in  to  breakfast  the  next  morning  Leonard 
noticed  that  he  was  dressed  in  proper  walking  attire,  in- 
stead of  the  loose,  free  and  easy,  well-worn  suit  of  cheviot, 
but  he  said  nothing.  Jack  looked  up. 

"You  are  staring  at  my  get-up,  Len.  Well,  I'll  do  it; 
but  mind  it  is  only  to  please  you.  What  should  I  care 
what  she  thinks  ?  though  I  ought  to  do  it,  I  know.  I'll  call 
and  thank  her,  and  then  let  there  be  an  end  of  it.  I  can't 
bear  any  chaff  of  that  sort  even  from  you,  old  fellow." 

Leonard  nodded  without  a  word,  for  he  saw  that  the  once 
frank  face  had  lost  its  careless  sang  froid  expression,  and 
looked  harassed  and  even  haggard. 

Jack  smoked  a  pipe  in  silence,  watching  Leonard's  rap- 
idly moving  pen;  then,  without  a  word,  went  out. 

Two  hours  later  he  came  in,  and  with  an  air  of  relief 
and  even  a  smile,  said: 

"Well,  I've  done  it,  and  it's  over." 

"Well  ?"  said  Leonard,  curiously. 

"Well,  nothing;  she  wasn't  at  home,"  said  Jack,  tri- 
umphantly. 


152  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  :  Oft, 

"Xot  at  home.    What  sort  of  a  place  was  it?" 

"The  best  ])lacc  in  Park  Lane,"  said  Jack.  "Xo  end  of 
flunkeys  about,  and  the  rest  of  it.  Look-;  as  if  she  rolled 
in  gold,  as  she  must  do  to  have  the  place  at  all." 

"And  you  didn't  see  her?"  asked  Leonard. 

Jack  cokied  and  frowned. 

"What  a  curious  beggar  you  are!  Yes,  I  did  see  her; 
her  carriage  drove  up  just  as  I  was  going  away/' 

"And  you  spoke  to  her?" 

"Xo,  I  just  raised  my  hat  and  walked  away/'  said 
Jack,  gravely. 

Leonard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"She  will  think  you  a  boor." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Jack.  "What  does  it  matter?  Tell  me 
something  about  yourself.  I  am  sick  of  myself.  What 
have  you  been  doing?" 

Leonard's  pale  face  flushed. 

"I've  been  to  Cheltenham  Terrace,"  he  said. 

"Well,  did  you  see  her?" 

"Xo,"  said  Leonard,  sadly.  "I  saw  that  the  blinds  in 
the  upper  windows  were  down,  and  I  went  to  the  next  door, 
and  asked  if  anyone  was  ill." 

"Well?" 

"Yes,  her  grandfather,  old  Mr.  Treheme,  was  ill,  they 
said,  and  I  came  away." 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  "at  any  rate  you  know  where  to  find 
her — while  I " 

"I  saw  her  shadow  on  the  blind,"  said  Leonard,  simply. 
"I  could  swear  to  it  among  a  hundred.  I  watched  her 
beautiful  profile  for  an  hour  in  that  railway  carriage." 

"Treherne,  Laura  Treherne,"  said  Jack.  "It  is  a  pretty 
name.  What  took  her  to  Hurst  Leigh  that  night,  I 
wonder?  The  night  the  squire  died.  Len,  it  is  a  romance, 
but  I  envy  you.  If  I  knew  where  Una  lived  I'd  hang  about 
the  house  night  and  day  until  I  saw  her.  Len,  do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  be  hungry,  to  be  parched  and  dried  up  with 
thirst  so  that  yon  would  give  all  you  possessed — ten  years 
of  your  life  for  a  draught  of  water?  That  is  just  how  I 
feel  when  I  think  of  that  beautiful  face,  with  its  soft 
brown  eyes  and  innocent  smile !  And  when  do  I  not  think 
of  her?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  153 

"And  you  didn't  speak  to  Lady  Bell?"  said  Leonard. 

Jack  made  a  hasty  explanation  and  made  for  the  door, 
nearly  running  against  the  housekeeper. 

"A  letter  for  you,  sir,"  she  said. 

Jack  tore  it  open,  read  it  and  threw  it  to  Leonard. 

The  envelope  was  a  dainty  gray  color,  and  stamped  with 
an  elaborate  coat  of  arms,  with  the  initials  I.  E.  in  cipher 
underneath,  and  inside  was  a  card  of  invitation  to  a  ball, 
filled  in  by  a  lady's  delicate  hand,  with  a  line  in  addition. 

"With  Lady  Earlsley's  compliments  and  regret  that  she 
was  from  home  when  Mr.  ISTewcombe  called." 

"Jack,  what  condescension.     You  must  go!" 

Jack  stammered,  and  argued,  and  protested.  He  was 
too  honest  to  plead  that  he  was  in  mourning;  but  he  sim- 
ply swore  that  he  would  not  go. 

The  day  came  round  and  the  evening  fell,  and  Jack 
came  into  the  sitting-room  in  evening  dress,  his  tall  form 
seeming  to  fill  the  room. 

Leonard  used  to  say  that  it  was  a  treat  to  see  Jack  in 
evening  dress ;  that  he  was  one  of  the  few  men  who  looked 
to  advantage  in  it,  and  he  turned  from  his  eternal  pen  and 
ink  to  look  at  him  with  an  approving  smile. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  fiercely,  "I  am  going ;  I  am  a  fool,  but 
how  can  a  man  stand  against  such  a  perpetual  old  nuisance 
as  you  are  ?  But  mind,  I  am  just  going  in  and  out  again, 
and  after  this  there  is  an  end  of  it.  I  shall  enlist !"  and  out 
he  went. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

Jack  called  a  hansom — of  course  he  could  have  walked, 
but  he  had  no  idea  of  economy  or  the  value  of  money — and 
was  driven  to  Park  Lane. 

Half  a  dozen  times  on  the  way  he  felt  inclined  to  stop 
the  cab,  jump  out  and  go  to  the  club — anywhere  but  Lady 
Bell's ;  but  nevertheless,  he  found  himself  in  Park  Lane, 
and  ascending  the  staircase.  He  saw  at  once,  by  a  few  un- 
mistakable signs,  that  the  party  was  a  small  and  select 
one,  and  furthermore,  judging  by  the  tasteful  magnificence 
of  the  appointments,  that  Lady  Bell's  wealth  had  not  been 
very  much  exaggerated. 


154  OXLY  OXE  LOVE :  OR, 

He  made  his  way  slowly,  for  a  dance  was  just  over,  and 
the  stairs  were  lined,  as  usual,  with  people  mostly  whom 
he  knew,  and  had  to  stop  to  speak  to.  Amongst  them 
were  Sir  Arkroyd  Hetley,  and  Dalrymple,  of  course  to- 
gether. 

"Hullo,  here's  the  Savage !''  cried  Hetley.  "How  do  you 
do,  Jack  ?  You've  soon  got  on  the  war  trail,  old  fellow," 
he  added  in  a  low  voice  and  with  a  significant  smile. 

Jack  growled  something  and  made  his  way  into  the 
room. 

For  a  moment  he  could  see  nothing  of  Lady  Bell,  then  as 
she  came  out  of  the  fernery  and  advanced  toward  him  her 
dark  eyes  flashing,  or  rather  gleaming  softly,  with  a  faint, 
delicious  color  mantling  on  her  cheeks,  he  felt  almost  the 
same  shock  of  surprise  which  had  fallen  on  Una. 

He  had  scarcely  noticed  her  the  other  night,  had  scarcely, 
indeed,  seen  her,  and  he  now  saw,  as  it  were  for  the 
first  time,  her  beauty,  set  off  and  heightened  by  the  aid  of 
one  of  Worth's  happiest  dresses,  and  Emanuel's  diamonds. 
In  spite  of  himself  he  was  dazzled,  and  his  frank  eyes 
showed  that  he  was. 

And  Lady  Bell  ?  Well,  though  his  face  had  scarcely  left 
her  mind's  eye  since  she  had  seen  it,  she  was  not  disap- 
pointed. 

Notwithstanding  the  rather  bored  and  surly — not  to  say 
ferocious  expression  which  set  upon  it — she  thought 
him  handsomer  than  even  she  had  remembered  him. 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Newcombe,"  she  said 
speaking  first,  for  Jack  had  contented  himself  with  bow- 
ing over  her  hand. 

"Kind?"  said  Jack,  in  his  straightforward  way. 

Lady  Bell  hesitated,  and  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  in 
her  life,  smiled  shyly. 

"I  heard— they  tell  me— that  it  is  as  difficult  to  get  Mr. 
Xewcombe  to  a  dance  as  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal." 

"It  isn't  much  in  my  way,"  said  Jack,  quietly ;  "I  am  not 
a  dancing  man— that  is,  l"  don't  care  for  it." 

"Then  it  was  kind,"  said  Lady  Bell,  recovering  her  cour- 
age and  smiling  at  him  with  that  wonderful  smile  which 
Hetley  and  all  the  rest  of  them  talked  so  much  about. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  155 

Jack  looked  at  her.  Yes,  certainly  she  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  there  was  a  subtle  something  in  that  smile. 

His  ill-temper  began  to  disappear. 

"I  should  say,"  he  said,  "that  a  man  ought  to  feel  lucky 
at  the  chance  of  getting  here/' 

"They  also  told  me,"  said  Lady  Bell,  archly,  "that  you 
never  paid  compliments." 

"Someone  seems  to  have  been  taking  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  make  me  out  a  regular  boor,"  said  Jack,  with 
his  curt  laugh.  "Did  they  also  tell  you  that  I  lived  in  the 
woods  up  a  tree,  and  existed  on  wild  animals  ?" 

"Like  a  savage?"  said  Lady  Bell,  wickedly. 

Jack  flushed  and  looked  at  her;  then  her  smile  con- 
quered and  he  laughed. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  they  call  me,  confound  their  impu- 
dence! But  I'm  a  very  tame  kind  of  a  savage,  Lady 
Earlsley;  I  shan't  scalp  you." 

"It  wouldn't  matter  much,  would  it?"  she  retorted. 
"They  make  such  beautiful  false  hair  now." 

Jack  looked  down  on  the  soft,  glossy  head,  with  its  thick, 
light  coils,  and  smiled. 

"Are  you  going  to  change  your  mind  and  scalp  me,  after 
all  ?"  she  said.  "You  make  me  tremble  when  you  look  like 
that." 

Jack  laughed  right  out. 

"No,"  he  said;  "even  a  savage  is  incapable  of  such 
ingratitude.  I  have  come  to-night,  Lady  Earlsley,  to 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  the  other  night,  and  to  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am  that — that  you  should  have  had  so 
much  trouble !" 

And  a  blush  managed  to  show  itself  under  the  tan. 

Lady  Bell  looked  down. 

"It  was  no  trouble,"  she  said.  "I  was  afraid  that  you 
were  hurt.  It  was  very  clumsy  and  stupid  of  my  man." 

"It  was  all  my  fault,"  said  Jack,  penitently.     "I " 

"Do  not  say  any  more,"  she  said,  gently,  and  she  put 
her  finger  tips  on  his  arm. 

Jack  looked  at  her,  and  met  her  gaze,  full  of  concealed 
interest,  and  his  own  eyes  fell  before  it. 

They  had  been  standing  near  the  fernery,  behind  which 
Stood  Una;  she  could  hear  every  word,  see  every  look. 


156  ONLY  OXK  LOVE:  OK, 

Pali-  and  almost  breathless  she  stood,  her  hands  clasped 
in  front  of  her,  her  heart  heating  fast,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Jack's  face.  She  longed  to  fly,  yet  could  not  move  a 
foot.  Something,  his  very  presence,  his  very  voice,  held 
her  like  a  chain. 

She  felt  that  if  he  were  to  turn  and,  seeing  her,  say, 
"Follow  me  !"  she  must  follow  him,  though  it  were  to 
the  end  of  the  earth. 

A  storm  of  conflicting  emotions  battled  within  her  for 
mastery;  a  wild  delight  at  his  presence,  an  intense  long- 
ing that  his  eyes  might  turn  and  rest  on  her,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  awful  miserable  feeling,  which  she  did  not 
know  was  jealousy. 

How  beautiful  they  looked,  these  two,  Lady  Bell,  the 
heiress,  in  her  rich  dress  and  splendid  jewels,  and  he, 
with  his  tanned  face  and  bold,  fierce  eyes,  his  stalwart 
frame  towering  above  all  others,  and  sinking  them  into 
insignificance.  How  well  matched  they  seemed.  Why 
—  why  did  Lady  Bell  smile  at  him  like  that  ?  No  wonder 
his  face  had  grown  brighter.  Who  could  resist  that 
bewitching  smile? 

The  music  of  a  waltz  commenced  and  recalled  her  to 
a  sense  of  her  position.  With  a  start  she  drew  still  fur- 
ther back,  so  that  she  was  quite  out  of  sight. 

"There's  a  dance,"  said  Jack,  in  his  blunt  way.  "I 
would  ask  if  you  were  free  to  give  it  to  me,  but  I  cannot 
dance  to-night.  I  am  in  mourning.  Don't  let  me  keep 
you,  though." 

"That  is  a  plain  intimation,"  said  Lady  Bell;  "but  I 
am  sorry  that  you  axe  in  trouble.  In  sober  earnest  it  was 
kind  of  you  to  come.  I  hope  it  was  no  one  near  to  you/' 

"No,"  said  Jack,  and  his  face  clouded  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  Hurst  Leigh.  "It  was  a  very  dear  old  friend  who 
had  been  very  good  to  me." 

Lady  Bell  inclined  her  head,  and  her  voice  grew  won* 
derfully  soft. 

I  see  that  I  must  not  keep  you.     I  shall  not  be  of- 
•  °U  leave  us  at  once-    If  I  nad 


•  -  - 

Now  here  was  Jack's  opportunity.     Why  did  he  not 
seize  it  and  go? 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  15T 

"Thanks,"  he  said;  '"although  1  won't  dance  I'll  stay 
a  little  while  if  you'll  permit  me." 

Lady  Bell  bowed. 

"Thank  you/'  she  said,  almost  humbly,  as  if  he  had 
granted  her  a  great  favor,  as  it  seemed  to  Una. 

At  this  moment  the  great — or  little — duke  came  up 
with  a  smile. 

"Am  I  fortunate  enough  to  find  you  free  for  this,  Ladv 
Earlsley?" 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  her  card,  carefully  keeping  it  out  of 
his  reach,  and  shook  her  head. 

"I'm '  so  sorry !  My  partner  will  be  here  directly,  I 
expect." 

The  duke  bowed,  expressed  his  regret,  and  moved  off, 
not  without  a  glance  at  Jack,  who  stood  calm  and  pos- 
sessed; and  Una  knew,  notwithstanding  all  her  ignorance, 
that  Lady  Bell  was  not  engaged,  but  had  refused  the  duke 
that  she  might  keep  Jack  by  her  side ;  and  with  this  knowl- 
edge the  demon  jealousy  sprang  into  life,  and  made  him- 
self fully  known. 

With  an  awful  aching  of  the  heart  she  sank  into  a  seat 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

What  right  had  she  there — she,  the  ignorant,  untaught 
forest  girl,  among  these  grand  people?  Even  supposing 
that  he  saw  her  he  would  not  remember  her,  and  if  he 
did  he  would  not  care  to  waste  a  glance  or  a  word  on  her, 
while  such  a  beautiful  creature  as  Lady  Bell  was  willing 
to  refuse  a  duke  for  his  sake. 

Suddenly  the  brilliant  scene  seemed  to  grow  dark  and 
joyless;  the  music  sounded  harsh  and  out  of  tune;  all  the 
beauty  had  vanished,  and  she  longed  to  be  sitting  in  the 
depths  of  Warden  Forest. 

"Your  partner  doesn't  seem  to  turn  up,"  said  Jack. 
"He's  an  ungrateful  idiot." 

Lady  Bell  laughed  and  sank  down  in  a  fauteuil  just  in 
front  of  the  recess. 

"I  forgive  him,"  she  said,  and  she  swept  her  skirts  aside 
to  make  room  for  him. 

Jack  sat  down,  not  gratefully,  but  quite  courtly. 

Lady  Bell  was  silent,  for  a  moment,  then  slie  said: 


158  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  Oft, 

"I  would  have  pent  a  card  for  your  friend,  but  I  could 
not  remember  bis  name." 

"Ob,  Lien,"  said  Jack,  shaking  bis  head.     "I'm  afraid  he 
would  'not  have  come.     He  never  goes  out — at  least  not  to 
this  sort  of  thing.     He's  a  book  worm,  and  doesn't  care 
for  the  gaieties.     His  name  is  Leonard  Dagle." 
"He  is  a  great  friend  of  yours?" 

"The  best  that  ever  man  had,''  said  Jack,  quietly;  "more 
than  a  brother." 

"You  live  with  him  ?"  she  said,  with  an  interest  only  too 
palpable  to  the  listening  Una,  whom  Lady  Bell  had  quite 
forgotten. 

"Yes,  we  live  together — have  done  so  for  years — always 
shall,  I  hope,  till- 
He  paused. 

"Till  death,  were  you  going  to  say  ?"  said  Lady  Bell. 
"No,  I  wasn't,"  said  Jack,  simply.    "I  was  going  to  say 
till  I  took  his  advice  and — enlisted." 

"Enlisted !"  she  repeated,  turning  her  beautiful  face  full 
upon  him. 

Jack  colored  and  frowned. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  stoutly;  and  though  he  said  not  a  word 
more,  Lady  Bell  knew  that  he  was  poor  and  in  trouble. 

It  was  just  the  one  thing  wanted  to  finish  the  romance. 
He  was  poor  and  in  trouble,  while  she  was  rich  beyond 
the  dreams  of  avarice.  Why  should  she  not  say  as  she 
longed  to  do :  .  : 

"You  want  money.  See,  here  am  I  who  have  more  than 
I  know  what  to  do  with;  take  some  of  it  and  make  me 
happy !" 

Instead,  she  thought  it  only,  and  remained  silent. 
"How  hot  it  is,"  she  said  presently.    "It  is  more  than 
tittie  to  leave  London.    One  longs  for  the  green  fields  and 
the  sea." 

"^It  is  late,"  said  Jack. 

"We  are  staying  in  town,"  she  said,  "because  my  father 
is  a  bookworm  and  can  only  live  near  a  library — he  only 
exists  elsewhere.  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  tear  him 
away  from  the  British  Museum ;  but  we  make  the  best  of 
it.  We  are  going  to  have  a  water-party  to-morrow  at  Rich- 
mond." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  159 

"Yes,"  said  Jack. 

She  waited  for  him  to  ask  for  an  invitation ;  then,  presa- 
ing  her  lip  with  her  fan,  said: 

"Will  you  join  us?" 

Jack  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  look  it,"  she  said.  "But  I  forgot — savages 
rarely  smile.  At  any  rate,  we  start  to-morrow  at  twelve 
o'clock.  Sir  Arkroyd  is  going  to  drive  us  down  in  Lord 
Dalrymple's  drag." 

"Perhaps  there  isn't  room,"  said  Jack. 

"Are  you  trying  to  find  an  excuse  for  not  coming?"  she 
said,  smiling  on  him. 

Jack  frowned,  and  then  laughed. 

"I'll  come,"  he  said. 

Yes,  there  was  a  nameless  charm  ahout  her  which  had 
made  itself  felt  already.  Was  it  her  beauty  or  her  frank- 
ness— the  latter  so  different  to  the  cut-and-dried  and 
measured  manner  of  the  ordinary  women  of  society? 

"I'll  come,"  he  said. 

Then  he  looked  around. 

"This  is  a  beautiful  room.  Where  did  you  get  all  the 
flowers  from?  Some  of  them  I  never  saw  before  in  Lon- 
don." 

"Do  you  like  them?"  she  said.  "Many  of  them  we 
brought  over  with  us  from  'across  the  seas,'  the  others  I 
ransacked  London  to  get — at  least,  poor  Mrs.  Fellowes 
did." 

"Why  poor?"  he  said. 

"Because  she  has  the  misfortune  to  be  my  companion, 
and  I  worry  her  to  death." 

"A  pleasant  death,"  he  muttered. 

"Thanks,"  she  said.  "That  is  the  second  compliment 
you  have  paid  me.  And  yet  they  say  you  are  not  gallant, 
as  the  French  have  it." 

"It's  the  heat,"  said  Jack,  in  his  grim  way. 

"You  will  find  some  ices  in  the  ante-room  there,  behind 
that  lace  curtain." 

"Shall  I  get  you  one  ?"  said  Jack. 

She  nodded. 

"Thanks !     Yes,  that  is  the  way,"  and  she  rose  to  point 


160  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

to  a  winding  path  made  through  the  rows  of  ferns  and 
tropical  plants. 

He  had  to  pass  her  in  going,  and  in  doing  so  he  struck  a 
spray  of  a  palm  with  his  head  ;  it  recoiled,  and  caught  some 
of  its  soft,  spiky  leaves  in  her  hair. 

She  uttered  a  half-laughing  cry,  and  Jack  turned. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  am  awfully  clumsy. 
Allow  me." 

She  bent  her  head  toward  him,  laughing,  and  Jack  dis- 
entangled the  silken  threads  from  the  great  clinging  leaf. 
In  doing  so  he  again  proved  his  clumsiness,  for  the  silken 
threads  got  round  his  fingers. 

He  could  feel  her  soft,  peach-like  face  against  his  wrist, 
and  being  human  his  blood  thrilled. 

Lady  Bell  looked  up.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  her  eyes 
drooping  and  languid. 

"Are  you  going  to  scalp  me  after  all  ?"  she  murmured. 

Jack's  heart  beat  strangely. 

"I  —  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  muttered  below  his  breath,  and 
with  lowered  eyes  he  went  on. 

Lady  Bell  looked  after  him  and  drew  a  long  breath.  A 
sigh  that  almost  echoed  hers  startled  her,  and  turning  she 
saw  Una,  sitting  where  she  had  left  her,  with  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap. 

"My  child,"  said  Lady  Bell,  "I  had  almost  -  " 

"Yes,  you  had  quite  forgotten  me,"  said  Una,  with  a 
strange  smile. 

Lady  Bell  flushed  and  looked  at  her.  Her  lovely  face 
was  pale  and  her  eyes  clouded  with  a  strange  look  of 
pain  and  weariness. 

"Forgive  me,,  my  child,"  she  said.  "You  are  quite 
pale—  you  are  tired.  It  is  too  hot.  Wait  !  there  are  some 
ices  coming." 

"No,  no,"  said  Una,  with  a  sudden  shrinking.    "Please 

leave  me—  do  not  bring  him  here  —  I  mean  -  "  she  stam- 

,'  "*  W(mld  rather  be  alone-     Go  and  dance,  Lady 


timid  fawn  H  is'"  said  LadJ  Bell>  caressingly. 
go  and  sit  in  the  shade  there.     Don't  be  fright- 
1  promised  to  take  care  of  you  " 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  1G1 

"I  am  not  frightened/'  said  Una,  quietly,  "but  I  would 
rather " 

"I  understand,"  said  Lady  Bell,  quickly;  then  ehe  said, 
trying  to  speak  carelessly  and  toying  with  her  fan :  "Did 
you  see  the  gentleman  I  was  speaking  to,  dear  ?" 

"Yes/'  said  Una,  calmly. 

"Don't  you  think  that  he  is  very  handsome?" 

Una's  heart  beat  so  fast  that  she  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  at  last. 

"What  a  cold  Diana  it  is !"  said  Lady  Bell,  caressingly. 
"What  an  icy  'yes/  My  dear,  he  is  the  handsomest  man  in 
the  room." 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  sadly. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  her. 

"I  see,  for  all  your  yesses,  that  you  don't  think  so,"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "Do  you  know  they  call  him  the 
Savage,  and  that  it  is  quite  an  achievement  on  my  part  to 
get  him  here  ?  I  made  his  acquaintance  by  accident.  Mrs. 
Fellowes  is  quite  shocked  over  it..  But  I  always  do  as  I 
like.  I've  got  a  fancy,  Una — you'd  never  guess  it." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Una,  raising  her  dark  eyes  gravely 
to  the  beautiful,  witching  face. 

Lady  Bell  smiled. 

"I  have  a  fancy  for  taming  the  Savage,"  she  said,  more 
tc  herseli  than  to  Una ;  "it  will  be  so  amusing." 

Una  turned  her  head  aside. 

"For  him,  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

Lady  Bell  stared  at  her,  and  her  color  came  and  went 
amusedly. 

"What  a  strange  child  it  is !  For  him  ?  No,  for  me ! 
And — yes,  for  him  too.  What  right  has  he  to  pretend  to 
be  invincible?  Do  you  think  I  shall  succeed?" 

Una  looked  at  her  with  an  aching  heart. 

<rYes,"  she  answered ;  "I  think  you  will  succeed." 

"What  a  flatterer  it  is!"  said  Lady  Bell,  playfully. 
"Hush !  here  he  comes ;  half  tamed  already.  Now  for  the 
first  lesson,"  and,  to  Una's  surprise  she  glided  from  the 
recess  and  was  instantly  lost  in  the  crowd.  A  moment 
after  Una  saw  her  dancing  with  the  duke. 

She  drew  back  into  the  shadow  and  watched  Jack.  He 
came  along  slowly,  the  ice  in  his  hand,  and  looked  around 


162  OXLY  OXK  LOVE ;  OR, 

for  Lady  Bell,  with  astonishment  and  something  like  anger 
in  his  face  for  a  moment.  Then  he  saw  her  dancing  with 
the  duke  in  the  center  of  the  room,  looked  round  for  some 
place  to  put  the  ice  down,  and,  seeing  none  convenient, 
gently  pitched  it,  plate  and  all,  into  a  fountain,  to  the 
considerable  astonishment  of  the  gold  fish. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pock- 
ets, seemed  lost  in  thought ;  his  head  thrown  back,  almost 
touched  Una's  arm,  and  she  wondered  whether  he  would 
be  glad  or  sorry,  or  simply  indifferent,  if  she  rose  and 
stood  before  him,  or  called,  him  by  name. 

Yes,  there  he  sat,  within  reach  of  her  hand.  She  had 
often  dreamed  of  him  as  being  near  her,  but  it  was  no 
dream  now. 

An  infinite  longing  to  touch,  to  speak  to  him,  possessed 
her,  and  if  he  would  but  turn  and  look  at  her  as  he  had 
looked  that  morning  by  the  lake ! 

She  struggled  hard  against  the  temptation,  and  sat  mo- 
tionless, all  her  heart  going  out  toward  him. 

If  she  had  known  that  Jack,  even  at  that  moment,  was 
thinking  of  her,  and  recalling  her  every  look  and  word. 
It  was  one  of  Strauss'  waltzes  they  were  playing,  but  he 
heard  it  not ;  in  his  ears  was  the  rustle  of  the  forest  trees 
and  the  ripple  of  the  lake ;  before  him  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  ball-rooms  in  London,  before  him  moved,  in  a 
glittering  pageant,  the  pick  of  London's  beauty  and  rank, 
but  he  saw  them  not;  he  was  looking  in  fancy  into  the 
lovely  face  of  the  innocent  forest  girl. 

The  dance  was  over,  but  still  Lady  Bell  did  not  come; 
couples,  arm-in-arm,  promenaded  past  him,  but  still  Jack 
sat,  and  dreaming  of  the  girl  who  sat  longing,  longing  for 
a  word  or  look  from  him,  just  behind  him.  Suddenly  Una 
felt  something  drop  into  her  lap.  It  was  a  blossom  from 
one  of  the  tropical  plants. 

She  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it  absently ;  then,  as  if  by 
a  sudden  inspiration,  she  raised  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it, 
and  rising,  dropped  it  on  his  knee  and  fled. 

Jack  started,  and  stooping  picked  up  the  flower,  looked 
at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  and  looked  up,  to  see 
whence  it  had  come. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  163 

As  he  did  so  he  saw  reflected  dimly  in  a  mirror  framed 
in  palm  leaves  a  girl's  face. 

With  a  bound  he  darted  to  his  feet,  and  naturally 
enough  made  for  the  reflection;  but  ere  he  could  reach  the 
mirror  the  face  had  vanished. 

Pale  and  trembling  with  eagerness  he  turned — but  Una 
had  glided  through  the  ferns  and  reached  the  anterroom — 
and  came  face  to  face  with  Lady  Bell. 

She  was  flushed  and  laughing,  her  eyes  dancing  with  the 
excitement  of  the  dance. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "where  is  my  ice  ?" 

Jack,  startled  and  bewildered,  stared  at  her. 

"I  must  have  been  dreaming,"  he  muttered. 

"Dreaming,"  she  said.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow. 

"Your  ice !"  and  he  glanced  at  the  fountain.  "I — I  beg 
your  pardon.  What  did  I  do  with  it  ?  I  will  get  you  an- 
other." 

"Never  mind !"  said  Lady  Bell,  laughing ;  "I  do  not  care 
for  it  now ;  I  am  too  hot.  Have  you  been  asleep  ?" 

"Asleep !"  he  said,  striving  to  recover  his  coolness ; 
"nearly.  What  could  I  do  when  you  left  me  ?" 

"The  third  compliment,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 
"Where  are  you  going  now  ?"  for  Jack,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  end  of  the  fernery,  was  moving  slowly  away. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  must  go,"  he  said. 

"Good-night!"  she  said,  turning  away  coldly. 

Jack  "pulled  himself  together,"  as  he  would  have  called 
it,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  will  stay  if  I  may." 

She  turned  to  Mm  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"No;  go  now,  please.  I  am  not  ungrateful.  It  was 
very  kind  of  you  to  come.  You  will  not  forget  tomor- 
row?" 

"No,"  said  Jack,  fingering  his  crush  hat.  "I  will  not 
forget  tomorrow — how  could  I?" 

She  held  out  her  hand — not  a  tiny,  meaningless  one,  but 
a  long,  shapely  eloquent  hand — and  put  it  into  his  broad, 
strong  one. 

"Good-night !"  she  said,  and  her  voice  grew  wondrously 


164  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

low  and  gentle  in  its  caressing,  clinging  tones.  "Good- 
night !"' 

Jack  felt  the  slender  fingers,  warm  through  the  thin 
glove?,  cling  round  his  fingers. 

"Good-night/'  she  said,  hurriedly.    "Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Jack  walked  leisurely  enough  through  the  fernery  look- 
ing this  way  and  that  in  search  of  the  phantom  girl;  but 
once  clear  of  the  ball-room,  he  hurried  through  the  ante- 
rooms and  down  the  staircase — utterly  ignoring  the  adieus 
which  were  sent  after  him  by  the  crowd  on  the  stairs — and 
reached  the  hall. 

The  carriages  were  already  taking  up,  and  without 
ceremony  he  pushed  through  the  footmen  into  the  open 
air.  . 

"Has  a  carriage  left  just  now — five  minutes  ago?"  he 
asked. 

"Two  or  three,  sir,"  said  the  footmen,  and,  too  busy  to 
answer  any  further  questions,  he  dashed  off. 

Jack  waited  just  outside  the  stream  of  light  for  nearly 
an  hour,  his  coat  collar  turned  up,  his  hands  thrust  in  his 
pockets.  But  though  many  a  beautiful  face  passed  him 
and  was  driven  away,  Una's  lovely  face  was  not  amongst 
them. 

"I  must  have  fallen  asleep  and  been  dreaming,"  he  mut- 
tered. "How  could  she  possibly  have  been  there?" 

Then  he  called  a  hansom,  and  was  driven  to  the  club. 

His  blood  was  on  fire,  his  brain  was  in  a  whirl;  two 
faces — Una's  and  Lady  Bell's — seemed  to  dance  before  his 
eyes.  Do  something  he  must  to  get  rid  of  them,  or  they 
would  drive  him  mad. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do — play.  Before  the  morn- 
ing he  had  lost  every  penny  of  his  twenty-one  pounds  six 
and  fourpence,  and  a  couple  of  hundred  besides. 

****** 

Chance  had  favored  Una  in  her  escape ;  no  sooner  had 
she  reached  the  staircase  than  she  heard  Mrs.  Davenant's 
carriage  announced.  To  get  her  shawl  and  make  her  way 
down  the  staircase  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments,  and 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  165 

the  brougham  was  rolling  away  toward  Walmington  Square 
before  Jack  had  got  down  to  the  hall. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  "have  you  enjoyed 
yourself?  You  look  pale  and  tired." 

Una  shrunk  into  her  corner. 

"I  am  rather  tired,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "it  was  all 
so  new  and  strange." 

"And  was  Lady  Bell  kind?" 

"Very  kind,"  answered  Una,  with  a  sigh.  "How  beauti- 
ful she  is !" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  "she  is  a  very  fortunate  girl. 
Youth  and  beauty  and  wealth,  she  has  much  to  make  her 
happy.  Tell  me  whom  you  saw,  my  dear." 

Una  flushed  and  trembled.  She  went  over  the  names  of 
some  of  the  great  people,  but  she  said  nothing  of  Jack. 
She  could  not  bring  her  trembling  lips  to  frame  his  name. 

"All  the  best  people  in  town,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with 
a  smile.  "You  will  be  a  fashionable  young  lady  before 
long,  Una." 

"Oh,  no,  no !"  breathed  Una,  with  a  sudden  pallor. 
"Perhaps  I  shall  never  go  again." 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  relapsed 
into  silence  until  they  reached  home. 

Then,  as  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  she  said,  with  a 
little  nervous  smile : 

"I  have  heard  from  my  son  Stephen,  Una." 

"From  your  son  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "It  is  good  news.  He  has 
become  very  rich.  His  uncle,  Squire  Davenant,  has  left 
him  everything  he  possessed." 

Una  started  and  turned  pale.  Then  Jack  had  been  left 
nothing!  That  was  why  he  had  looked  so  grave  and 
troubled. 

"Everything?"  she  asked. 

"Everything,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  with  a  sigh:  "the 
Hurst  and  the  estate,  and  all  the  money,  and  he  is  very 
rich — very  rich  indeed." 

Una  looked  before  her  dreamily.  She  could  not  say,  "I 
am  very  glad."  Mrs.  Davenant  waited  a  moment. 

"There  is  a  message  for  you,  my  dear,"  she  said  timidly, 
fingering  the  letter. 


166  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OB, 

"For  me !"  said  Una,  looking  up  with  a  start. 
"Yes ;  Stephen  is  so  thoughtful !  He  never  forgets  others 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  great  prosperity.  He  sends  his 
kind  regards,  and  trusts  that  you  do  not  miss  Warden,  and 
that  you  will  not  find  our  quiet  life  too  dull.  He  little 
thinks  how  we  have  plunged  into  gayety  already.  He 
would  be  surprised  if  he  knew  it." 

Indeed  Stephen  would,  with  a  vengeance ! 
"It  is  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Una,  in  a  low  voice. 
Mrs.  Davenant  sighed. 

"He  is  always  kind  and  thoughtful.     He  tells  me  that 
he  will  not  be  able  to  come  home  just  yet  awhile.    It  seems 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  to  see  to.    The  estate  was  greatly 
neglected,  and  there's  some  business  to  be  done  with  the 
lawyers;  that  keeps  him  there.     But  he  says  he  will  come 
as  soon  as  he  can,  and,  meanwhile,  I  am  to  make  you  as 
happy  as  I  can.    I  hope  I  have  done  that  already,  dear," 
she  added,  with  simple  affection. 
Una  rose  and  kissed  her. 
"Indeed,  yes;  I  am  very  happy." 
Then   she  turned  her  face  away  to  hide  her  tears. 
"Come,  you  must  go  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  "or 
you  will  lose  all  your  fresh  roses." 

And  she  put  her  candle  in  her  hand,  and  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

It  was  some  time  before  Una  fell  asleep.  The  events 
of  the  night  flitted  like  phantom  visions  across  her  eyes, 
and  Jack's  face  rose  to  haunt  her,  with  its  tender,  troubled 
look  in  the  dark  eyes. 

The  squire  had  willed  all  to  Stephen  then,  and  Jack 
was  poor  and  forgotten. 

,  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  she  awoke,  and 
breakfast  was  on  the  table  by  the  time  she  had  got  down. 
Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  with  a  smile. 
"I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  safe,  dear,"  she  said.   "Come, 
you  have  got  all  your  roses  back  again ;  and,  see  here,  you 
cannot  guess  whom  this  is  from ;"  and  she  held  up  a  note. 
;  is  from  Lady  Bell.     It  is  an  awful  scolding  for  your 
running  away  last  night.     She  says  that  you  flew  away 
e  a  bird,  and  that  she  had  no  sooner  missed  you  than 
she  heard  that  you  had  gone." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  167 

Una  colored. 

"Was  it  rude  of  me  ?"  she  said.    "I  am  sorry." 

"Never  mind,  my  dear;  she  has  evidently  forgiven  you, 
or  she  says  she  will,  if  you  will  go  with  her  for  a  water 
picnic  to-day." 

Una  turned  pale  again. 

"I !"  she  said,  below  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Davenant  opened  the  note. 

"Yes ;  she  says  she  will  take  no  denial.  They  are  going 
to  drive  down  to  Eichmond,  and  she  will  call  for  you  on 
the  way.  Would  you  like  to  go,  my  dear?" 

Una  thought  a  moment.  She  longed  for,  yet  dreaded, 
the  meeting  which  she  knew  must  take  place  between 
Jack  and  her  if  she  went. 

Mrs.  Davenant  took  her  silence  for  consent. 

"There  is  no  need  of  an  answer,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  laugh ;  "Lady  Bell  will  take  no  heed  of  a  refusal. 
There's  the  note." 

And  she  threw  it  across  the  table. 

Una  read  the  kindly-imperative  little  letter,  and  sighed 
as  she  examined  the  brilliant  crest  stamped  at  the  head  of 
the  paper. 

"It  is  very  kind,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  will  go,  if  you  are 
sure  you  do  not  mind  my  leaving  you." 

After  breakfast,  Mrs.  Davenant  and  Jane  entered  into  a 
consultation  as  to  what  Una  should  wear,  Una  standing  by 
with  a  quiet  smile. 

At  last  they  decided  that  a  dainty-figured  satin  should 
be  honored ;  and  both  of  them,  notwithstanding  Una's  pro- 
tests, insisted  upon  assisting  at  her  toilet. 

They  could  not  have  chosen  anything  more  suited  to 
her  fresh,  virginal  beauty  than  the  simple,  delicate  dress ; 
and  when  Jane  had  brushed  the  soft,  silken  hair  until  it 
shone  and  Hashed  like  strands  of  golden  haze,  and  coiled  it 
into  a  knot,  Mrs.  Davenant  could  not  suppress  an  excla- 
mation of  satisfaction  and  admiration. 

As  for  Una,  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  view  her  changed 
self  without  surprise,  and  stared  at  the  tall,  beautiful 
woman  which  the  glass  reflected  as  though  she  could  not 
believe  that  it  was  herself. 

They  were  still  looking    at    her,    and    Jane's    restless 


168  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

fingers  were  touching  a  bow  here  and  a  fold  there,  when 
they  heard  the  rattle  of  heavy  wheels  outside,  and  Mrs. 
Davenant  hurried  her  downstairs. 

Lady  Bell  was  already  in  the  drawing-room,  and  took 
Una  in  her  arms  as  if  she  were  a  school-girl,  instead  of  a 
woman  taller  than  herself. 

"My  child,  I  came  to  scold  you — I  meant  to  have  a  fear- 
ful scene ;  but  you  have  taken  it  all  out  of  me !"  And  she 
held  Una  by  her  elbows,  and  looked  at  her  admiringly. 
"Child,  you  are  a  picture !  I've  half  a  mind  to  drive  off 
without  you.  What  will  become  of  me?  Mrs.  Davenant, 
don't  you  think  I  am  very  stupid  to  commit  suicide  in  this 
way?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  smiled,  and  looked  at  Lady  Bell's  beauti- 
ful face,  all  bright  as  if  with  sunlight,  and  shook  her  head 
gently. 

"Bah !"  said  Lady  Bell,  pouting.  "I  am  nothing  but  a 
foil  to  her ;  but  I  shall  be  useful,  at  least.  Come,  we  must 
be  off.  What  is  that— milk?" 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  offering  her  a  glass,  with  a  smile. 

"She  drinks  nothing  else,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"That  accounts  for  her  complexion,"  said  Lady  Bell. 
"No,  it  doesn't !  If  I  drank  all  the  dairies  in  London  dry, 
I  shouldn't  get  such  milk  and  roses  on  my  cheeks." 

"Don't  turn  her  head,"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant,  un- 
der her  breath. 

Lady  Bell  laughed. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Davenant,  it  is  just  what  she  wants ! 
There  isn't  a  spark  of  vanity  in  her  composition ;  she  isn't 
quite  a  woman,  for  no  woman  is  without  vanity.  Look  at 
her,  as  grave  and  stern  as  a  judge !"  and  she  touched  Una's 
arm  with  her  sunshade. 

Una  started — she  had  been  wondering  whether  Jack 
would  be  there  outside,  on  the  drag,  and  was  listening  for 
his  voice  amongst  those  which  came  floating  through  the 
open  window. 

Trembling  inwardly  she  followed  Lady  Bell  out. 

The  four  horses  were  champing    and    pawing  impa- 

The  drag  was  nearly  full,  and,  for  a  moment,  Una  saw 
a  confused    group  of  women  in    dainty    morning 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  1G1) 

dresses,  and  of  men  in  white  flannel  and  cheviot.  A  sees 
ond  glance  convinced  her  that  Jack  was  not  there. 

As  they  appeared  on  the  steps  the  laughter  and  voices 
ceased,  and  a  well-bred  glance  of  curiosity  was  turned  upon 
her. 

Lady  Bell  was,  however,  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Come  along,  Una,"  she  said,  gayly.  "Fanny,  will  you 
make  room  beside  you  for  Miss  Rolfe?" 

The  Countess  of  Pierrepoint  smiled. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Rolfe !"  she  said  graciously.  "I 
hear  you  were  at  Lady  Bell's  dance  last  night;  why  did 
you  let  her  hide  you  so  completely  ?" 

Una  was  silent. 

Fortunately  Dalrymple  made  so  much  bustle  and  fuss  in 
starting,  that  conversation  for  a  minute  or  two  was  im- 
possible; and  before  that  minute  or  two  had  passed,  Una 
had  gained  her  self-possession. 

Seated  about,  she  recognized  several  of  the  people  Lady 
Bell  had  pointed  out  on  the  preceding  evening:  Lady 
Clarence,  Mrs.  Cantup,  the  Marchioness  of  Fairfield.  Be- 
side Dalrymple,  who  had.  all  his  work  cut  out  in  keeping 
the  four  spirited  nags  in  good  conduct  in  the  crowded 
London  streets,  sat,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Sir  Arkroyd 
Hetley,  while  one  or  two  other  men — -one  of  whom  she 
heard  addressed  as  the  viscount — was  with  the  ladies. 

Had  Una  been  naturally  nervous,  her  timidity  could  not 
long  have  existed  in  such  an  atmosphere. 

Her  companions  were  among  the  highest  in  the  land; 
but  there  was  less  reserve  and  ceremony  than  would  have 
been  found  in  a  similar  gathering  of  middle-class  peo- 
ple. The  men  were  laughing  and  chatting,  ever  and  again 
turning  round  to  make  some  light-hearted  remark,  or  pass 
some  joke  round.  They  were  all,  it  was  evident,  bent  on 
enjoying  themselves. 

Very  soon  Una  found  herself  brought  into  the  conversa- 
tion, Lady  Bell  talking  to  her  continually,  and  pointing 
out  the  lions  of  the  road. 

The  roses  came  back  into  Una's  face  in  full  bloom,  her 
heart  beat  more  lightly,  and  her  spirits  rose  as  the  four 
impatient  horses  dashed  along  the  roads  which  now  ran 
through  the  beautiful  vicinity  of  Richmond. 


170  ONLY  OXE  LOVE  ;  OR, 

She  had  almost — almost — forgotten  that  Jack  was  not 
there,  when  happening  to  glance  round  suddenly  at  Lady 
Bell,  she  saw  her  looking  dreamily  before  her,  evidently 
lost  in  thought,  with  a  wistful  drooping  of  the  bright  red 
lips  and  a  disappointed  shadow  in  the  dark  eyes. 

Then  Una  knew  that  it  was  not  only  she  herself  who  felt 
the  absence  of  the  missing  one. 

However,  Lady  Bell  soon  rallied,  and  when  they  drove 
up  to  the  hotel  she  was  as  bright  as  ever. 

The  luncheon  had  been  sent  up  to  Thames  Button,  one 
of  the  prettiest  parts  of  the  Thames,  and  it  had 
been  arranged  that  the  gentlemen  should  row  up  to 
the  island,  hence  the  white  flannel  and  cheviot  costumes. 
They  found  boats  awaiting  them  at  the  river  side,  and, 
with  much  laughing  and  gayety,  started. 

It  was  a  beautiful  scene,  the  river  gleaming  like  a  flood 
of  silver  between  its  banks  of  green  meadows  and  stately 
trees,  the  three  boats  with  their  bright  colored  occupants. 
Una,  who  was  of  nature's  own  kin,  was  filled  with  delight ; 
it  was  better  than  being  at  Warden.  She  leaned  back  in 
her  comfortable  seat  in  the  stern  of  the  foremost  boat,  rapt 
in  silent  enjoyment. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  her  rather  wistfully. 

"How  happy  you  look,  child,"  she  said,  in  a  lower  voice 
than  usual. 

"I  am  quite  happy,"  said  Una,  simply. 

"You  are  just  the  person  for  a  picnic,"  said  Lady  Clar- 
ence. "I  feel  sure  that  you  would  look  just  as  contented 
and  serene  if  it  rained  in  torrents,  while  the  rest  of  us 
would  be  running  about  bemoaning  our  spoiled  clothes." 

Una  laughed. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  rain,"  she  said. 

"That's  fortunate,  Miss  Rolfe,"  said  Dalrymple,  who 
was  pulling  stroke,  and  exerting  himself  nobly,  while  Het- 
ley,  pulling  behind  him,  allowed  him  to  do  all  the  work. 

That's  fortunate,  as  we  shall  be  sure  to  have  a  shower  or 
two — always  do  at  a  water  picnic." 

"Xo  prophesying,  marquis !"  cried  Lady  Bell.  "Th'ere 
isn  t  a  cloud  in  the  sky ;  there  isn't  a  sign  of  wet." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  said,  with  mock  gravity,  "for 
I'm  fearfully  thirsty." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEUi?  171 

They  paid  no  attention  to  this  broad  hint,  however,  until 
they  were  going  through  Teddirigton  Lock,  when  Lady 
Bell  produced  some  champagne  and  soda  water,  and  Het- 
ley  made  a  cooling  cup. 

When  it  came  to  Una's  turn  —  they  all  drank  out  of  the 
same  cup,  a  splendid  silver  tankard,  chased  with  the  Earls- 
ley  arms  —  she  glanced  at  it  askance  and  shook  her  head. 

"But  you  must,  my  dear  Una,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "You 
will  be  parched." 

"Let  me  have  some  water,"  said  Una,  and  making  a  cup 
of  her  hand  —  a  trick  she  had  learned  at  a  very  early  age  — 
she  bent  over  the'  boat  and  as  quietly  and  naturally  drank 
a  draught. 

The  countess  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  Sir  Arkroyd 
muttered  to  Dalrymple: 

"Where  did  she  come  from?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dalrymple,  in  the  same  tore.  "I'd 
stick  to  water  all  the  day  if  she'd  let  me  drink  it  out  of  the 
same  cup.  Isn't  she  beautiful  —  perfectly  lovely!" 

"Hush,  she'll  hear  you,"  muttered  Sir  Arkroyd,  warn- 


But  he  need  not  have  feared. 

Una  sat  like  the  dream-maiden  in  the  ballad,  deaf  to  all 
but  the  plash  of  the  oars  and  the  music  of  the  birds. 

Presently  the  stately  pile  of  Hampton  Court  Palace 
glided,  as  it  were,  into  their  view,  and  with  a  long  pull 
Dalrymple  sent  the  boat  to  the  island. 

The  two  other  boats  were  close  behind,  and  then  these 
grand  people  who  were  accustomed  to  be  waited  on  hand 
and  foo^  got  out  and  dragged  hampers  under  the  shadow 
ef  the  oaks  and  willows  ;  and  the  countess  and  Lady  Clar- 
ence laid  the  cloth,  while  Lady  Bell  and  the  rest  knelt 
beside  the  hampers  and  pulled  out  the  things  one  by  one. 
Then  Sir  Arkroyd  was  sent  to  lay  the  champagne  bottles 
in  the  shallow  water,  and  Dalrymple  was  handed  a  dish 
and  the  ingredients  for  making  the  salad. 

In  a  few  minutes  luncheon  was  set  out  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  much  laughter,  and  a  few  accidents.  One  of 
the  champagne  bottles  had  slid  into  the  deep  water,  and 
disappeared  to  the  bottom  of  the  river  to  astonish  the 
fish.  The  corkscrew  followed  it;  and  dismay  fell  on  all, 


172  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OK, 

until  the  viscount  calmly  produced  another  from  his 
pocket. 

"Never  go  to  a  picnic  without  a  corkscrew/'  he  said, 
sl-aking  his  head.  "Generally  have  to  produce  it,  too." 

Then  there  was  much  dragging  about  of  hampers, 
and  arranging  of  shawls  and  hoat  cushions  to  provide  seats 
for  the  ladies ;  but  at  last  all  were  seated,  and  Dalrymple, 
brandishing  a  knife  in  dangerous  proximity  to  Lady 
Pierrepoint's  head,  cut  the  first  slice  of  raised  pie. 

Then  it  was  discovered  how  easy  it  is  to  make  jokes  at  a 
picnic.  You  can't  be  stately  and  ceremonious  sitting 
cross-legged  on  the  grass,  and  balancing  your  plate  on  your 
knees;  especially  when,  in  consequence  of  there  not  bei..ig 
quite  enough  knives,  you  have  to  lend  the  one  you  are 
using  to  your  next-door  neighbor. 

As  usual,  too,  there  were  not  quite  enough  plates  and 
those  dainty  gentlemen,  who  went  into  fits  if  a  fly  fell  into 
their  wineglasses  at  the  club,  bent  down  on  their  hands 
and  knees  and  washed  plates  in  the  river. 

"And  there  is  no  rain,"  said  Lady  Bell. 

"Then  one  of  us  will  have  to  fall  into  the  river,"  said 
the  viscount,  solemnly.  "Must  have  rain  or  an  accident  at 
a  picnic,  you  know.  Will  you  have  some  more  cream.  Lady 
Earlsley?" 

Lady  Bell  shook  her  head,  laughingly. 

"No,  thanks;  I  have  enjoyed  it  all  immensely.  Why 
cannot  we  have  a  picnic  every  day  ?" 

But  Una,  who  sat  next  her,  had  noticed  that  she  scarcely 
touched  anything. 

"Let  us  go  into  Bushey  Park,  and  turn  savages,"  said 
Dalrymple.  "Halloa ;  speaking  of  savages,  what  a  pity  the 
Savage  isn't  here.  This  is  just  in  his  line." 

Lady  Bell  bent  down  suddenly  to  take  a  flower  from 
the  cloth. 

"Mr.  Newcombe  was  detained  in  town,"  she  said, 
calmly;  but  Una  could  detect  the  faint  quiver  in  her 
voice. 

"Poor  old  Jack,", said  Dalrymple,  after  a  pause,  "seems 
to  be  cut  up  about  something  lately.  Do  you  remember 
hc-w  q*eer  he  was  that  night  he  came  back  from  the  coun= 
try,  Arkroyd?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  173 

Lady  Bell  looked  up  suddenly. 

"Let  us  go  for  a  ramble.  You  may  smoke,  gentlemen," 
she  added.  "Now  don't  shake  your  heads  as  if  you  never 
did  such  a  thing.  I  can  see  your  cigar-case  peeping  out  of 
your  pocket,  Lord  Dalrymple." 

And  linking  her  arm  in  Una's,  she  sauntered  away. 

They  strolled  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  until  Una, 
happening  to  look  up,  saw  that  Lady  Bell's  face  was  quite 
pale,  and  that  something  suspiciously  like  tears  were  veil- 
ing the  brightness  of  the  dark  eyes. 

"Lady  Bell!"  she  murmured. 

"Hush!"  said  Lady  Bell,  gently.  "Don't  notice  me, 
child  !  Oh,  how  sick  I  am  of  it  all  !  What  a  long  day  it 
seems  !  How  can  they  sit  there  laughing  and  chattering 
like  a  set  of  monkeys?" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Una,  in  her  low,  musical 
voice. 

"Nothing/'  said  Lady  Bell,  softly  ;  then  she  paused  and 
tried  to  laugh.  "Una,  my  sweet,  innocent,  I've  got  a  com- 
plaint which  you  know  nothing  of;  it  is  called  the  heart- 
ache. There  is  no  cure  for  it,  I  am  afraid  ;  at  least,  not  for 
mine.  Tut  !  there,  there  !  your  great,  grave  eyes  torture 
me  ;  they  seem  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  Not  a  word 
more.  Here  they  come  !" 

And  the  next  instant  she  turned  round,  all  life  and 


Una  sauntered  on,  her  heart  beating  wildly.  Was  Lady 
Bell's  heartache  produced  by  the  absence  of  Jack  New- 
combe  ?  Yes,  that  must  be  it  I 

With  a  sigh  she  drew  away  still  further  from  the  rest, 
and  seating  herself  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  by  the  riverside, 
watched  the  silver  stream  as  it  flowed  past  and  was  lost 
in  the  setting  sun. 

Suddenly  she  saw  in  the  distance  a  white  speck  that 
looked  like  a  bird,  flitting  up  the  middle  of  the  stream. 
The  speck  grew  larger;  and  she  saw  that  it  was  a  light 
boat  putting  toward  the  island. 

Gradually  it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  she  saw  that  it 
contained  one  man  only,  and  that  he  was  clad  in  white 
flannel. 

It  was  a  light  water-boat  —  a  mere  speck  of  white  it 


174  OXLY  OXE  LOVE:  OR, 

looked  now  on  the  golden  stream — and  to  Una,  who  had 
never  seen  an  outrigger  before,  it  seemed  an  almost  im- 
possible feat  to  sit  in  it. 

But  the  sculler  managed  it  with  the  greatest  ease,  and 
with  every  stroke  sent  it  flying  forward. 

With  regular  rhythmical  action  he  pulled  on,  and  very 
soon  she  could  see  his  great  arms  bared  to  the  shoulders. 

She  watched  it  absently  for  some  minutes,  but  presently 
the  rower  turned  his  head,  and  something  in  the  movement 
struck  her  and  made  her  heart  bound. 

Agitated  and  trembling  she  rose  and  stood  staring  down 
the  stream. 

A  curve  of  the  island  hid  the  boat  suddenly,  and  she 
stood  watching  for  it  to  appear  again;  but  the  minutes 
passed  on  and  it  did  not  come.  T!hen  suddenly  she  heard  a 
peal  of  laughter  and  the  clatter  of  voices,  and  she  knew 
that  the  boat  had  pulled  into  the  island. 

With,  a  vague  hope  and  dread  commingled  she  sank  to 
the  seat  again,  and  sat  striving  to  still  the  wild  beating 
of  her  heart. 

Presently  she  heard  her  name  called.  It  was  Lady 
Bell's  voice,  and  how  changed;  there  was  no  false  ring 
in  it  now ;  clear  and  joyous  it  rang  out : 

"Una!  Una!  Where  are  you ?" 

There  was  no  escape.  She  knew  she  must  go,  but  she 
waited  for  full  three  minutes.  Then,  nerved  to  an  un- 
natural calm,  she  rose  and  moved  slowly  forward.  They 
were  all  seated  again ;  she  could  see  them. 

Dalrymple  and  Sir  Arkroyd  were  stretched  at  full 
length,  smoking;  the  ladies,  in  their  dainty  sateens  and 
pompadours,  were  grouped  near  them,  and  a  little  apart 
sat  Lady  Bell,  a  cup  in  one  hand  and  a  knife  in  the  other, 
her  face  turned  toward  someone  eating.  Though  his  back 
was  toward  her,  Una  recognized  him.  It  was  Jack  New- 
combe.  He  had  turned  down  his  sleeves  and  put  on  his 
white  flannel  jacket,  and  was  eating  and  chatting  at  one 
and  the  same  time. 

^"Yes,  better  late  than  never,"  she  heard  him  say,  and 
with  every  word  of  his  deep,  musical  voice  her "  heart 
leaped  as  if  in  glad  response.  "I  found  I  could  get  away. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  175 

and  I  jumped  in  the  train,  to  learn  at  Richmond  that  you 
had  just  started.  I  got  an  outrigger,  and  here  I  am." 

"Just  in  time  to  help  wash  up/'  said  Dalrymple.  "We've 
eaten  all  the  strawberries,  old  man,  and  there  isn't  much 
crearn.  It's  lucky  for  you  there  is  any  pie." 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  them,  Mr.  Newcombe," 
said  Lady  Bell,  and  how  soft  and  sweet  her  voice  sounded, 
with  its  undertone  of  tenderness.  "I  am  so  sorry  you  are 
late.  Do  not  let  them  hurry  you.  You  must  be  so  tired. 
Let  me  give  you  some  ham — some  tongue,  then?" 

And  she  herself  cut  a  slice  and  put  it  on  his  plate. 

"Don't  let  me  stop  the  fun,"  said  Jack,  in  his  grave  way. 
"Go  on  with  your  games.  What  was  it — kiss-in-the- 
ring?" 

There  was  a  laugh;  the  lightest  joke  will  serve  at  a  pic- 
nic. 

"I  was  haunted  by  the  dread  aat  I  should  come  just 
in  time  to  find  everything  clear  ,:c  up.  What  a  beautiful 
day !  No,  no  more,  thanks." 

"Let  me  give  you  some  cham^ii.'Vie,"  said  Lady  Bell,  and 
reached  forward  with  the  goblet,  a  her  hand. 

Jack  took  it,  and  nodded  over  it    in  true  picnic  fashion. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  and  raised  U  to  his   lips. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Boll  looked  up,  and,  seeing  Una 
standing  still  and  motionless,  beckoned  her. 

Mechanically  Una  went  round  to  her,  and  so  stood  in 
front  of  Jack. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup  at  the  mo- 
ment, but  presently  he  lifted  them,  and,  with  a  sharp  cry, 
he  let  the  cup  fall  to  the  ground  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

And  then  he  stood  staring  at  her  downcast  face  with 
startled  eyes  and  pale  countenance. 

"Hallo !  Take  care !"  cried  Dalrymple.  "What  are  you 
up  to  now,  Savage  ?  Anything  bitten  you  ?" 

Lady  Bell  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  from  Una's 
white,  downcast  face  to  Jack's  pale,  startled  one. 

"Una,"  she  breathed,  "what  is  it?" 

But  Jack  recovered  himself. 

"Just  like  you  fellows,"  he  said.  "Didn't  you  know  that 
you  had  pitched  me  on  an  ants'  nest  ?  What  did  you  say, 


17<r  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

Lady  Bell?    I  beg  your  pardon.     I  don't  think  there  is 
much  spilled,  and  there  is  nothing  broken." 

And   he  knelt  down  and  picked  up  the  cup. 

Lady  Bell  laughed. 

"I  couldn't  think  what  was  the  matter/'  she  said.  "Are 
you  really  bitten?" 

"Just  like  Jack,"  said  Sir  Arkroyd,  with  philosophic 
calmness.  "He  is  never  happy  unless  he  is  breaking 
something.  I  give  you  my  word  that  he  smashes  more 
glasses  at  the  club  than  any  other  man." 

"Always  was  clumsy,"  said  Jack,  with  a  constrained 
laugh. 

Lady  Bell  smiled. 

"You  have  quite  frightened  my  friend,  Miss  Rolfe,"  she 
said.  "Una,  this  unfortunate  gentleman  is  Mr.  New- 
combe." 

Jack  had  given  her  time,  and  she  was  able  now  to  look 
at  him  calmly.  Jack  bowed,  his  eyes  glancing  at  her  as  if 
they  scarcely  dared  trust  the  evidence  of  their  own 
senses. 

"Pray  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  am  very  awkward.  But 
I  don't  break  quite  so  many  things  as  they  say.  Is  there 
any  more  champagne,  Lady  Earlsley?  I  don't  deserve  it, 
I  know " 

Lady  Bell  took  up  a  bottle. 

"Pour  this  into  the  cup,  Una,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"It  is  true  he  doesn't  deserve  it,  but  we  will  be  merciful." 

Una  took  the  bottle  and  leaned  forward,  and  as  she  did 

so  Jack  rose  and  stood  before  her,  so  that  he  screened  her 

trembling  hand  from  the  eyes  of  the  rest. 

His  own  trembled,  his  own  heart  beat  wildly;  all  else 
save  the  beautiful  face  so  close  to  his  own  swam  before  his 
eyes. 

Was  he  dreaming,  or  was  it  really  she?  He  could  not 
trust  his  eyes,  he  felt  that  he  must  touch  her. 

Slowly  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  gently,  tremblingly 
touched  her  white,  slender  wrist. 

Instantly  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him,  a  long, 
piteous  look,  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

Yes,  it  was  she.    It  was  Una,  his  forest-maiden ! 

With  a  long  breath  he  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips  and 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  177 

drained  it,  then  sank  down  on  the  grass  and  took  up  his 
plate,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  doing. 

The  laughing  voices  around  him  seemed  blurred  and 
indistinct  in  his  ears,  the  green  trees  and  silver  stream 
seemed  to  fade  and  vanish,  and  give  place  to  the  silent 
glade  in  which  he  had  sat  with  the  same  beautiful  girl 
bending  over  him. 

Mechanically  he  went  through  the  pretense  of  eating  un- 
til a  burst  of  laughter  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"Look  here !"  shouted  Dalrymple  in  boyish  glee.  "Here's 
the  Savage,  busy  eating  nothing !" 

Jack  laughed,  awakened  to  the  sense  of  the  situation. 
He  must  nerve  himself,  if  only  for  her  sake. 

"It  must  be  sunstroke,"  he  said  lightly,  staring  at  his 
empty  plate.  "Will  somebody  give  me  a  piece  of  cake  ?  I 
have  always  doted  on  cake.  I  like  a  piece  with  the  candied 
peel  on  it,  Lady  Bell.  Thanks.  Now  I  am  just  going  to 
begin  my  luncheon/' 

"Those  persons  who  are  tired  of  watching  the  Savage 
satisfy  his  barbaric  appetite  are  requested  to  withdraw !" 
drawled  Dalrymple,  and  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  laughing. 

"Seriously,  if  anyone  would  like  to  go  up  to  the  palace, 
I've  an  open  door.  I  should  like  a  row." 

There  was  an  instant  clamor.  Three  parts  of  the  party 
wanted  to  see  the  palace,  and  a  couple  of  boat  loads 
started. 

Lady  Clarence,  Lady  Bell,  Una,  and  Jack  remained. 

He  still  kept  up  the  pretense  of  eating  and  drinking; 
and  Lady  Bell,  kneeling  opposite  him,  seemed  never  to 
grow  weary  in  supplying  his  wants. 

Una,  seated  at  a  little  distance,  noticed  with  what  eager 
attention  she  hung  upon  every  word  he  uttered.  And  Jack 
kept  on  talking  as  if  his  life  depended  on  it.  But  pres- 
ently his  patience  came  to  an  end. 

He  put  down  his  plate  resolutely. 

"No  more,  thanks,  or  I  shall  be  too  heavy  for  the  out- 
vigger.  Now,  then,  can't  I  help  pack  up  ?" 

But  Lady  Bell  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

"No,  you  shall  light  your  pipe,"  she  said,  "and  watch 
us.  Come,  Una.  I  know  you  are  dying  to  help  us." 


178  OXLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

Una  awoke  with  a  start  and  knelt  down  beside  the  plates 
and  dishes  while  Lady  Bell  went  for  the  hamper. 

Jack  seized  his  opportunity.  Bending  forward,  he  whis- 
pered : 

"Una!" 

She  half  turned  her  face,  pale  and  dreamy. 

"Well?" 

"Is  it  really  you?  How  did  you  come  here?  rAm  I 
dreaming  ?" 

"It  is  I,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  musical  voice. 

"But — hut,"  he  said,  "how  did  you  come  here?  I  did 
not  know  you  were  in  London.  I  have  been  looking  for 
you." 

Her  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He  had  been  looking  for 
her. 

"I  have  been  searching  for  you  everywhere,  Una.  Did 
vou  think  I  should  not  come  back?  I  went  to  War- 
den  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"And  I  found  the  cottage  shut  up  and  your  people 
gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,  gone,  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  So  I  came 
to  town,  and — and  I  looked  for  you  everywhere.  Ah !  you 
thought  that  I  had  forgotten  you,  as  you  had  forgotten 
me." 

Her  lovely  face  flushed,  and  she  turned  her  dove-like 
eyes  upon  him,  with  a  reproachful  look  in  their  depths. 

"Forgotten  him !" 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  he  went  on,  drawing  still 
nearer  to  her,  his  eyes  eagerly  scanning  her  face. 

She  smiled  faintly.  A  great  joy  welled  up  in  her  heart, 
every  nerve  was  tingling  with  happiness,  she  scarcely 
heard  him.  The  words,  "I  have  been  searching  for  you," 
rang  in  her  ears. 

"I  scarcely  understand  it  myself,"  she  said:  "it  seems 
like  a  dream." 

Jack  glanced  toward  the  bank.    They  had  finished  the 
packing,  and  would  interrupt  them  in  another  minute. 
Where  are  you  staying  ?    You  are  on  a  visit  ?" 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  179 

"I  am  staying  with  Mrs.  Davenant,"  said  Una,  in  the 
same  low  voice. 

Jack  started,  and  the  unlit  pipe  nearly  fell  from  his 
hand. 

"With  Mrs.  Davenant  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "With  Stephen's 
mother?" 

Una  nodded. 

"Yes;  he  has  been  very  kind  and  good  to  me." 

Jack  stared  breathless. 

"Stephen  good  to  you!"  he  said,  fiercely.  "What  do 
you  mean?  Am  I  dreaming?" 

"It  was  he  who  came  to  Warden  with  Mrs.  Davenant," 
said  Una,  vaguely,  troubled  by  the  stern  look  of  suspicion 
which  had  settled  like  a  cloud  on  Jack's  face. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  grimly.  "Stephen — Ste- 
phen! How  did  he  know  of  your  existence?" 

"Some  friend,"  said  Una ;  "I  do  not  quite  know.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  through  him.  And  I  like  Mrs.  Davenant." 

Jack  nodded. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  good  woman.    But  Stephen " 

And  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow. 

Una  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"Are  you  angry?"  she  asked. 

"Angry !  with  you !"  he  exclaimed,  bending  nearer,  with 
a  look  of  tender  devotion.  "How  could  you  think  it  ?  No, 
I  am  not  angry — only  puzzled.  I  cannot  make  it  out. 
Never  mind !  don't  look  so  troubled,  my  dear — Miss  Kolfe, 
I  mean.  At  any  rate,  I  have  found  you.  Oh,  Una! — 
Miss  Rolfe,  I  mean — if  you  knew  how  I  have  searched  for 
you,  and" — with  a  groan — "what  a  fool  I  have  been !" 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,"  said  Una,  with  that 
sweet  humility  of  love. 

Jack's  eyes  gleamed. 

"I  have  not  forgotten  you  for  one  moment — not  for  one 
moment!  Una,  I Oh,  confound  it!  here  they  are." 

He  broke  off  impatiently,  as  Lady  Bell  and  the  rest 
came  back. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  she  said,  with  her 
bright  smile.  "Some  of  them  have  gone  to  the  palace. 
Shall  we  wait  for  them,  or  go  and  meet  them !  What  do 
you  say,  Mr.  Newcombe?" 


180  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

But  Jack  would  not  stir. 

"They'll  conic  back,"  lie  said,  absently,  his  eyes  drawn 
toward  the  downcast  face. 

How  lovely  it  was!  If  they  would  only  all  go  away, 
and  leave  them  alone !  He  had  so  much  to  say — so  much 
to  ask. 

But  Lady  Bell  showed  no  sign  of  going;  instead,  she 
threw  herself  down  on  the  grass  beside  them,  and  com- 
menced to  talk. 

Had  he  enjoyed  the  pull  up?  Why  had  he  not  driven 
down  with  them?  She  didn't  believe  in  particular  busi- 
ness; and  so  on. 

Jack  pulled  at  his  pipe,  and  returned  absent,  scarcely 
civil  answers.  At  last  Lady  Bell  noticed  his  abstraction, 
and  turned  her  head  away  in  silence. 

Meanwhile  Una  sat  speechless,  her  face  turned  toward 
the  river,  her  whole  soul  absorbed  by  his  presence.  It 
frightened  her,  this  feeling  of  absorption.  She  found  her- 
self waiting  and  listening  for  every  word  that  dropped 
from  his  lips  as  if  her  life  depended  on  it.  She  trembled 
lest  he  should  touch  her. 

His  manner  filled  her  with  an  ecstasy  of  pleasure  that 
was  almost  pain.  How  handsome  he  looked,  stretched  out 
at  full  length,  his  tanned  face  turned  to  the  sky,  his  tawny 
mustache  sweeping  his  clear  cut  lips ;  she  felt,  rather  than 
knew,  that  his  eyes  sought  her  face,  and  she  dared  not 
turn  her  eyes  toward  him,  though  she  longed  to  do  so. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Presently,  to  the  relief  of  Una,  at  least,  the  other  boats 
came  back;  the  third  boat  was  got  ready,  the  hampers  put 
on  board,  and  the  ladies  seated. 

Jack  stood  near  the  stern,  and  took  Una's  hand  in  his 
to  help  her  to  embark. 

"Take  care,"  he  said,  aloud,  then  in  an  undertone,  he 
'I  shall  see  you  at  Richmond." 

"Are  you  going  to  row  the  outrigger  down,  Savage?"  said 
Dalrymple,  eying  the  first  boat  enviously. 

Jack  turned  to  him  eagerly. 

"No,  Fir  take  your  place  in  this  boat;  I  can  see  you  are 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  181 

longing  for  mine.  Here,  get  in";  and  before  Dalrymple 
could  refuse,  Jack  had  almost  lifted  him  into  the  outrigger., 
and  leaped  into  his  place  in  Lady  Bell's  boat. 

All  the  darkness  vanished  from  his  brow.  He  was  sit- 
ting opposite  Una;  so  near,  that  when  he  leaned  forward 
to  make  the  stroke,  his  hand  almost  touched  her  dress. 

"Are  you  coming  with  us?"  said  Lady  Bell;  "I  am  so 
glad." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Jack ;  but  his  eyes  went  to  Una's  face. 

"Now,  then/'  said  Jack,  as  he  bent  forward. 

"Steady,  old  man,"  said  Sir  Arkroyd;  "we  haven't  all 
got  blacksmith's  muscles !" 

But  Jack  was  wild,  delirious  with  joy,  and  he  pulled, 
heart  and  soul,  his  great,  strong  arms  bare  to  the  elbows. 

"What  a  lovely  night !"  said  Lady  Bell.  "Won't  anybody 
sing?" 

Of  course  no  one  replied. 

"Sing  something,  my  dear  child,"  she  said  to  Una.  "You 
have  a  singing  face.  You  have  no  idea  how  beautiful  it 
sounds  on  the  water." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Una,  shrinking  modestly. 

Jack  looked  up. 

"Sing,"  he  murmured,  pleadingly.  As  if  he  had  uttered 
a  command,  she  looked  at  him  with  meek  obedience,  and 
began  the  song  he  had  heard  her  singing  in  the  forest. 

Is  there  anything  more  exquisite  on  earth  than  the  voice 
of  a  young  girl?  Una  knew  nothing  of  the  science  of 
song;  she  had  had  no  master,  no  instruction  of  any  sort; 
but  her  voice  was  clear  and  musical  as  a  young  thrush's 
and  she  sang  straight  from  her  heart. 

No  need  to  tell  Jack  to  pull  slower !  He  ceased  rowing, 
and  rested  on  his  oar,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  his  lips 
half  apart. 

The  other  boats  stopped  also  as  the  music  of  the  sweet, 
young  voice  floated  down  the  stream,  and  one  and  all  felt 
the  spell. 

Lady  Bell  sat  with  lowered  lids  and  pale  face,  and  when 
the  last  note  died  away  and  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  were 
moist. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "where  did  you  learn 
to  sing  like  that?" 


182  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OK, 

Una,  half  frightened  at  the  effect  she  had  produced, 
flushed  and  sank  back  into  her  seat. 

"I  have  never  learned,"  she  said,  quietly. 

There  was  a  murmur,  and  Lady  Clarence  turned  and 
looked  at  her  curiously. 

"You  have  a  beautiful  voice,"  she  said,  "and  exquisite 
taste,  or  you  could  not  sing  as  you  do.  It  is  a  pity  you 
have  not  been  thoroughly  trained.  You  should  have  a  mas- 
ter." 

"She  shall!"  said  Lady  Bell,  impulsively.  "She  shall 
have  the  best.  It  would  be  criminal  to  let  such,  a  gift  be 
wasted !" 

Jack  looked  up  with  a  flush  of  pleased  gratitude,  and 
Lady  Bell  happened  to  catch  that  glance. 

With  a  slight  start  she  turned  pale,  and  looked  from  his 
face  all  aglow  with  the  fervor  of  loving  admiration  lo 
Una's  downcast  one,  and  then,  with  something  like  a  shud- 
der, she,  too,  sank  back  into  the  seat. 

"Isn't — isn't  it  cold?"  she  said,  in  a  strangely  changed 
voice. 

"Is  it?"  said  Jack,  musing.  "We'll  row  on,"  and  he 
bent  to  the  oar  again. 

A  peculiar  silence  fell  upon  them  all;  it  seemed  as  if 
they  were  still  listening  to  the  sweet  voice.  Lady  Bell 
closed  her  eyes  and  remained  motionless,  and  Jack  pulled 
as  if  lie  had  undertaken  to  reach  Richmond  within  a  given 
time. 

At  Eichmond  tea  was  brought  to  them  on  th^  terrace 
while  the  horses  were  put  to,  and  very  soon  they  were 
dashing  toward  London. 

Dalrymple  declared  that  his  arms  were  too  stiff  to  allow 
him  to  handle  the  four  grays  properly,  and  Jack  was  unani- 
mously voted  to  the  box. 

V  Je  looked  rather  inclined  to  refuse,  but  seeing  that  Una 
had  been  seated  close  behind  him,  he  climbed  up  and  took 
the  reins  without  a  word. 

For  the  first  mile  or  two  he  had  quite  enough  to  do  to 

eep  the  nags  in  hand;  but  he  could  feel  that  Una  was 

5  behind  him,  could  feel  her  breath  on  his  cheek,  and 

lear  every  word  of  the  clear,  low-pitched  voice,  and  he  was 

deliriously  happy. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  183 

Presently,  when  he  had  got  the  horses  into  steady  work- 
ing, he  turned  his  head  and  pointing  with  his  whip,  as  it' 
he  were  directing  her  attention  to  some  object  in  the  land- 
scape, said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Una,  can  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  leaning  forward. 

"I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  it.  It's  all  a  mystery.  However,  I 
know  where  you  are  now,  and  that's  something ;  and  I  can 
come  and  see  you,  and  that's  everything — to  me.  Are  you 
angry  with  me  for  speaking  so — so  boldly  ?" 

"No,"  she  faltered. 

"And  I  may  come  and  see  you  ?  I  know  Mrs.  Davenant ; 
she  is  a  good  creature,  though  she  thinks  me  everything 
that's  bad — and  she's  not  far  wrong,  I'm  afraid " 

Una  sighed  faintly. 

"And  perhaps  she'll  tell  me  what  it  means,  and  why 
Stephen  has  sent  you  to  be  with  her.  Why,  Una,  did  your 
father  allow  you  to  come  ?  He  loathed  me  for  being  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  the  Davenants." 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Una,  troubled. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Jack,  hastening  to  soothe  her;  "it's 
sure  to  be  all  right,  if  he  did  it.  I  liked  your  father,  not- 
withstanding he  was  so  rough  with  me.  I  liked  him  because 
he  took  such  care  of  you.  Steady,  silly !"  This  was  to  the 
near  leader,  and  not  to  Una.  "What  a  lovely  night !  Are 
you  enjoying  it  ? — are  you  happy  ?" 

A  sigh,  faint  and  tremulous,  was  full  answer. 

"Please  Heaven,  we'll  have  many  a  night  like  this. 
Happy !  I  could  go  half  mad  with  delight  at  having  you 
so  near  me.  Una — I  may  call  you  Una  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"Can  you  guess — you  sweet,  innocent  flower — what 
makes  me  so  happy?" 

"Tell  me !"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  and  leaning  for- 
ward until  her  soft,  silken  hair  almost  touched  his. 

Jack's  heart  beat  fast,  and  his  blood  bounded  in  his 
veins. 

"It  is  because  I  love  you.  I  love  you !  Do  you  under- 
stand? Ah,  my  darling!  you  don't  know  what  love  is. 
But  I  ought  not  to  call  you  so — not  yet.  I  can't  see  your 


184  OXLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

face;  perhaps  T  shouldn't  dare  to  be  so  bold  if  I  could. 
Speak  to  me,  Una ;  speak  to  me.  Tell  me  that  you  are  not 
angry.  Tell  me  that,  while  I  have  never  had  your  sweet 
face  out  of  my  mind  since  that  day  we  parted  in  Warden, 
you  have  thought  once  or  twice  of  me.  I  don't  deserve  it. 
I'm  a  bad  lot ;  but  I  love  you,  Una.  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

There  was  no  reply;  but  there  was  a  soft  nestle  beside 
him,  and  then  he  felt  her  hand  timidly  touch  his  arm. 

He  slipped  the  whip  and  reins  into  one  hand,  and  seized 
the  little  trembling  hand  and  enclosed  it  as  if  he  meant 
thus  to  swallow  it  up  forever. 

But,  alas !  the  horses  were  going  down  hill,  and  were 
fidgeting  and  pulling;  and  with  impatient  exclamation  at 
their  stupidity,  he  was  obliged  to  let  the  little  hand  go; 
but  it  did  not  go  far ;  he  could  feel  it  touching,  softly  and 
timidly,  the  edge  of  his  coat-sleeve,  and  that  was  enough 
for  him.  It  was  a  mercy  and  a  miracle  that  the  drag  was 
not  upset,  for  he  scarcely  knew  where  or  how  he  was 
driving,  and  it  was  more  by  instinct  and  habit  that  he 
brought  the  team  safe  and  sound,  but  sweating  tremen- 
dously, before  the  house  in  Park  Lane. 

"You  must  all  come  in,"  said  Lady  Bell. 

The  gentlemen  looked  at  their  white  flannels  apologet- 
ically, but  Lady  Bell  laughed. 

"Let  us  pretend  that  we  are  our  own  masters  and  mis- 
tresses for  one  night,"  she  said,  "and  not  the  slaves  of 
Fashion." 

Jack  stood  out.  He  felt  that,  for  the  present,  it  be- 
hooved him  to  be  discreet,  and  he  knew  that  if  he  were 
not,  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  conceal  the  romantic 
ove  which  burned  through  and  through  him.  Besides,  he 
knew  that  there  would  be  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
Una  there;  and  he  felt  that  it  would  be  agony  for  him  to 
issume  the  conventional  air  of  polite  indifference  to  her 
or  that  evening,  at  least. 

So  he  went     But  he  stood  on  the  pavement  to  help  her 

and  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  kept  her  for  one 

moment  poised  between  heaven  and  earth;  and  as  he  put 

er  down,  his  hps  touched  her  arm,  and  she  knew  it. 

mrl  ASGe  *  theA°rses>  Dal"  he  said'  and  he 
and  drove  off  as  if  he  were  possessed. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  185 

"That's  what  the  Savage  calls  seeing  to  them  !"  grumbled 
Dalrymple.  "He'll  throw  'em  down,  or  run  over  some- 
body, and  I  shall  be  fined  five  pounds  for  furious  driving." 

Jack  was  conscientious — where  horses  were  concerned — 
and  he  sat  on  the  rack  and  saw  them  rubbed  down  and  fed 
with  the  patience  of  a  martyr ;  then  he  jumped  into  a  han- 
som, was  driven  to  Spider  Court,  and,  bursting  into  the 
room,  fell  into  a  chair  and  flung  his  cap  at  Leonard's' 
head. 

"Mad  at  last!"  said  Leonard. 

"Yes,  stark,  staring,  ramping  mad,  old  fellow.  I've 
found  her!" 

"No !"  said  Leonard,  turning  round. 

"Yes !  Yes !  And  I've  spent  the  day  with  her.  She's 
here  in  London,  and  who  do  you  think  she  is  staying  with  ? 
With  Mrs.  Davenant,  Stephen's  mother !" 

"Stephen's  mother!"  said  Leonard,  with  surprise. 
Nonsense." 

"Fact !     What  do  you  make  of  it  ?" 

Leonard  Dagle  mused  in  silence. 

"I  can  make  nothing  of  it,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Did  she  know  Mrs.  Davenant?" 

"No;  that's  the  mystery.  Stephen,  it  seems,  is  the 
cause  of  her  being  here.  He  found  out  her  father — how  I 
can't  guess — he  must,  of  course,  have  known  her  before^ 
there's  nothing  wonderful  in  that.  But  what  is  wonderful 
is  that  Stephen  should  do  anyone  a  good  turn,  unless— un- 
less— "  and  his  face  darkened  suddenly  and  grew  fierce — 
"unless  he  had  some  end  in  view." 

"What  end  could  he  have  in  view  here?"  said  Leonard. 

"That's  what  I  can't  make  out ;  can  you  ?" 

Leonard  shook  his  head. 

"It's  a  strange  story  throughout." 

"It  is,"  said  Jack,  grimly.  "But,  Stephen  Davenant,  if 
you  mean  any  mischief,  look  out !  I'm  on  your  track,  my 
friend!  But,  Len,  old  man,  you  look  rather  done  up. 
What's  the  matter?" 

Leonard  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow. 

"Something  strange  and  mysterious  also,"  he  said.  "I 
went  to  Cheltenham  Terrace  an  hour  ago,  just  on  the 
chance  of  getting  a  glimpse  of — of " 


186  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OB, 

"Of  Laura  Treherne.     Well,  old  man  ?" 

"And  I  met  with  a  similar  shock  to  yours  in  Warden 
Forest.  I  found  the  house  shut  up,  and  she — gone,  van- 
ished, disappeared !" 

"What !"  exclaimed  Jack. 

Leonard  paced  up  and  down. 

"I  went  to  inquire  next  door,  and  I  learned  that  old  Mr. 
Treherne  was  dead — you  remember  my  telling  you  that  the 
blinds  were  down — that  the  funeral  took  place  yesterday, 
and  Miss  Treherne  had  gone.  They  only  lodged  there,  it 
seems,  and  of  course  she  could  go  at  any  moment.  Where 
she  has  gone  no  one  seems  to  know.  So  there  is  an  end  to 
my  little  romance !  But  no !  it  shall  not  end  there." 

"No ;  take  courage  by  my  luck,  old  man,"  said  Jack,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  shoulder — "take  courage  by  me !  Let 
us  talk  about  it." 

"No,  no !"  said  Leonard,  shrinking;  "I  cannot — yet.  You 
don't  know  how  I  feel.  Tell  me  what  happened  today. 
Was  she  glad  to  see  you?  Did  you  let  her  see  that  you 
cared  for  her  ?  Of  course  you  did." 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  with  a  proud,  happy  smile.  "Yes,  I 
told  her  that  I  loved  her,  and — oh,  Len !  Len !  I  know  that 
she  cares  for  me !" 

Leonard  stared  at  him  gravely,  and  put  down  a  paper 
which  he  had  taken  up.  But  Jack  saw  it  and  took  it  off 
the  table. 

"What  are  you  reading  there,  Len?" 

Leonard  took  it  out  of  his  hand. 

"My  poor,  light-hearted,  unreasoning  Jack,"  he  said. 
"It's  Levy  Moss'  reminder  about  that  bill !" 

Jack's  face  fell  and  he  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Quite  right,  Len,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "I  am  an  unrea- 
soning fool!  What  have  I  done?  I've  behaved  like  a 
blackguard !  I've  got  this  angel  to  admit  that  she  loved  me 

-me,  a  beggar— more  than  a  beggar !    But  I  swear  I  for- 
forgot  everything  when    I    was    near    her.     Oh, 

eaven,  Len,  it's  hard  lines !     What  shall  I  do !     If  the 

oor  old  squire  had  but  left  me  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  how 
happy  we  could  be !" 
"But  he  hasn't,"  said  Leonard,  gravely  and  gently.  "And 


WHO  WAS  THE  HElll?  187 

what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  There's  the  money  you  lost  last 
night " 

Jack  groaned. 

"What  an  idiot  I  was.  Len,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was 
nearly  driven  out  of  my  mind  last  night.  First  there  was 
Lady  Bell — she  was  more  than  civil,  and  bearing  in  mind 
all  you  said  and  wanted  me  to  do,  I  made  myself  agreeable, 
and — and — she's  very  beautiful,  Len,  and  when  she  looks 
right  into  your  eyes  and  smiles,  she  seems  to  do  what  she 
likes  with  you.  Len,  I  was  nearly  gone  when  that  vision — 
as  I  thought  it — came  into  the  glass  amongst  the  ferns.  I 
thought  it  was  a  vision — I  know  now  that  she  was  there — 
and  it  drove  me  silly.  I  bolted  out  and  made  for  the  club, 
and  played  to  forget  it  all/' 

"And  made  bad  matters  worse,"  said  Leonard.  "You're 
in  a  hole,  Jack,  I'm  afraid.  Moss  won't  wait;  there  are 
other  bills,  and  there's  the  I.  0.  U.  of  last  night,  and  you've 
lost  the  money  you  had,  and  you've  asked  this  young  girl 
to  love  you.  You  mean  to  marry  her — I  say,  you  mean 
to  marry  her.  On  what  ?  How  can  you  go  to  her  father — 
who  already  doesn't  seem  altogether  prepossessed  in  your 
favor — and  ask  him  to  give  his  daughter  to  a  penrifless 
gentleman?  Mind — a  gentleman!  If  you  were  a  wood- 
man like  himself,  your  being  hard  up  wouldn't  matter. 
You  could  take  an  ax,  or  whatever  they  use,  and  earn  your 
living.  But  you  can't  go  and  ask  him  to  let  her  share  your 
over-due  bills  and  I.  0.  TJ.'s." 

Jack  groaned. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Len?    My  darling,  my  darling!" 

Leonard  sighed.  His  heart — the  heart  of  as  true  a 
friend  as  ever  the  world  held — ached  for  the  wild,  thought- 
less youth. 

"Was  Lady  Bell  there  ?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

Jack  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Lady  Bell !  I  see  what  you  mean !"  he  groaned.  "Len, 
you  are  in  love  yourself,  and  yet  you  ask  me  to  sell  my- 
self  " 

Leonard  flushed. 

"Jack,  much  as  I  care  for  you,  I  swear  that  I  am  think- 
ing as  much  of  her  good  and  happiness  as  of  your  own.  If 
you  marry  her — which,  after  all,  you  cannot — if  you  could 


188  OXLY  OXE  LOVK  :  OR. 

you  would  make  her  life  miserable ;  if  you  marry  Lady  Bell, 
you  will  at  least  make  her — happy/'' 

Jack  paced  up  and  down  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned,  white  and  haggard,  and  held  out  his  hand : 

"You  are  right.  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  not  .'  I 
see  it,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  will  not  make  her  life  miserable. 
But — but — I  must  go  and  tell  her.  Heaven  help  us  both !" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Where  ignorance  is  bliss  'tis  folly  to  be  wise.  Quite  ig- 
norant and  unconscious  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  Luidon, 
Stephen  remained  down  at  the  Hurst. 

What  he  had  written  to  his  mother  was  quite  true;  as  a 
matter  of  fact  Stephen  was  far  too  clever  to  write  direct 
falsehoods — he  was  kept  at  Hurst  Leigh  very  mucL  against 
his  will. 

Squire  Ralph  had  left  him  everything — money,  house, 
lands,  everything  excepting  the  few  legacies  to  tservants, 
and  Stephen  had  been  hard  at  work,  and  was  stiF.  hard  at 
work  ascertaining  how  much  that  everything  was. 

And,  as  day  followed  day,  and  disclosure  succeeded  dis- 
closure, he  became  fascinated  and  possessed  by  the  immense 
wealth  which  had  fallen  into  his  hands,  or,  6t»y  rather, 
which  he  had  seized  upon. 

For  many  years  the  old  squire  had  lived  upon  less  than 
half  his  income ;  the  remainder  he  had  invested  and  specu- 
lated with,  and  as  often  happens  to  the  miser,  tae  luck  of 
Midas  had  fallen  upon  him. 

Everything  he  touched  had  turned  to  gold.  The  most 
unlikelv  speculations  had  proved  successful;  properties 
which  he  had  bought  for  a  mere  song,  and  which  had  been 
regarded  by  the  most  wary  as  dangerous  and  profitless,  had 
become  profitable  and  valuable. 

Some  of  these  risky  speculations  he  had,  not  unnaturally, 
kept  concealed  from  the  prudent  Hudsley,  who  only  now, 
by  the  discovery  of  scrip  and  bonds  in  out-of-the-way  desks 
and  bureaus,  learned  what  kind  of  man  his  old  friend  had 
really  been. 

Not  a  day  passed  but  it  brought  to  light  some  addition  to 
the  old  man  s  gains,  and  served  to  swell  the  immense  total. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  189 

Even  the  lands  round  Hurst  had  been  manipulated  by 
the  old  man,  so  that  leases  ran  out  almost  at  his  death,  and 
rents  were  raised. 

One  speculation  will  serve  as  an  instance;  he  had  pur- 
chased, some  fifteen  years  before  his  death,  the  freehold  of 
an  estate  bordering  upon  London ;  and  in  a  locality  which 
was  then  regarded  as  hopelessly  unfashionable.  A  great 
capitalist  had  ruined  himself  by  building  large  houses  on 
the  property,  foreseeing  that  at  some  time  or  other  the  tide 
of  the  great  city  would  reach  this  hitherto  high  and  dry 
spot.  But  he  had  made  a  miscalculation,  and  he  died  be- 
fore the  tide  which  was,  to  bring  him  wealth  reached  his 
property;  old  Ralph  had  then  stepped  in  and  bought  it — 
houses,  land,  everything.  In  ten  years'  time  the  tide  of 
fashion  rolled  that  way,  and  now  what  had  once  been  a 
neglected  and  forgotten  quarter  was  the  center  of  fashion- 
able London. 

It  reads  like  a  romance,  but  like  many  other  romances,  it 
was  true. 

Old  Ralph  himself  had  no  idea  of  his  own  wealth,  and 
that  when  he  died  he  should  leave  behind  him  one  of 
the  most  colossal  fortunes  in  England. 

Almost  stunned  by  the  immense  total — so  far  as  it  had 
been  arrived  at — Stephen  went  about  the  place  silent  and 
overwhelmed. 

But  one  thought  was  always  ringing  like  a  bell  in  his 
brain — "And  I  had  nearly  lost  all  this  !" 

Sometimes,  in  the  quiet  of  the  library,  where  he  sat 
surrounded  by  books  and  papers,  by  accountants'  statements 
and  estimates,  he  would  grow  pale  and  tremble  as  he  re- 
flected by  what  a  narrow  chance  he  had  secured  this  Midas- 
like  wealth. 

But  had  he  secured  it  ?  and  when  the  question  presented 
itself,  as  it  did  a  hundred,  aye,  a  thousand  times  a  day,  he 
would  turn  ashy  pale,  and  clutch  the  edge  of  the  table  to 
keep  himself  from  reeling. 

Where  was  that  will — the  real,  true,  valid  will — which 
left  everything  away  from  him  to  Una? 

Day  by  day,  while  going  over  the  accounts,  he  found 
himself  waiting,  watching,  expecting  someone — whom  he 
could  not  imagine — coming  in  and  saying:  "This  is  not 


190  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

yours;  here  is  the  will.  I  found  it  so  and  so,  at  such  and 
such  a  time !"  and  he  felt  that  if  such  a  moment  occurred 
it  would  kill  him. 

But  as  the  days  passed  and  no  one  came  to  contest  his 
claim  to  the  property,  he  grew  more  confident  and  assured, 
and  at  last  he  nearly  succeeded  in  convincing  himself  that 
he  really  had  burned  the  will. 

"After  all,"  he  mused,  over  and  over  again,  "that  is  the 
only  probable,  the  only  possible  explanation.  Is  it  likely 
that  if  anyone  had  the  accursed  thing  they  would  keep  it 
hidden  ?  No !  If  they  were  honest,  they  would  have  de- 
clared it  at  once ;  if  dishonest,  they  would  have  brought  it 
to  me  and  traded  upon  it.  Yes,  I  was  half  mad  that  night. 
I  must  have  destroyed  it  at  the  moment  Laura  knocked 
at  the  window." 

But  all  the  same  he  determined  to  make  his  position  se- 
cure. Immediately  he  had  arranged  matters  at  the  Hurst 
he  would  go  to  London  and  marry  Una. 

"She  is  all  safe  and  sound  there,"  he  mused,  with  a 

satisfied  smile.     "My  mother  leads  the  life  of  a  hermit. 

The  girl  herself  has  no  friends — not  one  single  soul  in 

London.     I  shall  be  her  only  friend,  and — the  rest  is  easy." 

Poor  Stephen ! 

Then  he  would  give  a  passing  thought  to  Laura,  and 
now  and  then  would  take  from  his  pocket  half  a  dozen  let- 
ters, which  she  had  written  to  him  since  the  night  of  her 
journey  to  Hurst. 

To  not  one  of  these  had  he  replied,  and  the  last  was 
dated  a  week  back. 

"By  this  time,"  he  thought,  "she  has  forgotten  me,  or 
what  is  better,  has  learned  that  plain  Stephen  Davenant 
and  Squire  Davenant  of  Hurst  Leigh  are  two  very  dif- 
ferent men.  Poor  Laura !  Well,  well,  I  must  do  some- 
thing for  her.  I'll  make  her  a  handsome  present.  Say  a 
thousand  pounds ;  perhaps  find  a  husband  for  her.  She's 
a  sensible  girl,  too  sensible  to  dream  that  I  should  think  of 
marrying  her  now.  After  all,  what  harm  is  done?  We 
were  very  happy,  and  amused  ourselves  with  innocent  flirta- 
tion. A  mere  flirtation,  that  is  all " 

And  he  tried  to  forget  the  pale  face  and  flashing  eyes 
which  turned  toward  him  that  night  at  parting  with  such 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIE?  191 

a  strange  look  of  warning.  But  he  did  not  always  suc- 
ceed in  forgetting.  Sometimes  the  remembrance  of  that 
face  rose  like  a  vision  between  his  eyes  and  the  endless  rows 
of  figures,  and  made  him  shudder  with  mingled  fear  and 
annoyance. 

"It  has  been  a  lesson  to  me/'  he  would  .say,  after  awhile. 
"It  is  the  only  weakness  I  have  ever  been  guilty  of,  and 
see  how  I  am  punished.  I  deserve  it,  and  I  must  bear  it." 

It  punished  him,  and  it  told  upon  him.  The  pallor 
which  had  come  upon  his  face  the  day  the  will  was  read 
had  settled  there.  The  old  look  of  composed  serenity 
and  "oiliness,"  as  Jack  called  it,  had  gone,  and  in  the  place 
was  a  look  of  strained  intentness,  as  if  he  were  always  lis- 
tening, and  watching,  and  waiting. 

He  was  a  fine  actor,  and  would  have  made  a  fortune  on 
the  boards,  and  he  managed  to  suppress  this  look  at  times, 
but  the  effort  of  suppression  was  palpable ;  he  showed  that 
he  was  affecting  a  calmness  and  serenity  which  he  did  not 
possess. 

By  two  men,  of  all  others,  this  change  in  him  was  espe- 
cially noticed — by  Mr.  Hudsley  and  old  Skettle. 

The  old  lawyer  and  his  clerk  was  necessarily  with  him 
every  day;  Stephen  could  not  move  a  step  without  them. 
He  hated  Hudsley,  whose  keen,  steel-like  eyes  seemed  to 
penetrate  to  his  inmost  heart;  and  he  detested  Skettle, 
whose  quiet,  noiseless  way  of  moving  about  and  watching 
him  from  under  his  wrinkled  lids,  irritated  Stephen  to  such 
an  extent  that  sometimes  he  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to 
fling  something  at  him. 

But  both  of  the  men  were  indispensable  to  him  at  pres- 
ent, and  he  determined  to  wait  until  everything  was 
straight  before  he  cut  all  connections  with  them. 

"Once  let  me  get  matters  settled,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self over  and  over  again,  "and  those  two  vultures  shall 
never  darken  my  doors  again." 

And  yet  Hudsley  was  always  scrupulously  polite  and 
civil,  and  Skettle  always  respectful  . 

With  his  characteristic  graveness,  Mr.  Hudsley  went 
through  the  work  systematically  and  machine-like. 

But  Stephen  noticed  when  lie  came  to  announce  some 
fresh  edition  to  the  great  Davenant  property,  he  never  even 


192  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

uttered  a  formal  congratulation,  or  seemed  pleased  and 
gratified. 

One  day  Stephen,  nettled  beyond  his  usual  caution,  said: 
"You  must  be  tired  of  all  this,  Mr.  Hudsley.  I  notice 
that  it  seems  to  annoy  you." 

And  the  old  lawyer  had  looked  up  with  grim  impas- 
tubJity. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Stephen.  I  am  never  tired,  and 
I  am  never  annoyed/' 

"At  least  you  must  be  surprised,"  said  Stephen;  "you 
had  no  idea  that  my  uncle  had  left  so  much." 

"No,  I  am  not  even  surprised,"  retorted  Mr.  Hudsley, 
if  his  calm  reply  could  be  called  a  retort.  "I  have  lived 
too  long  to  be  surprised  by  anything." 

And  there  was  something  in  his  keen,  icy  look  which 
silenced  Stephen,  and  made  him  bend  over  his  papers 
suddenly. 

Others  noticed  the  change  which  had  come  over  the 
once  sleek,  smooth-spoken  young  man.  It  got  to  be  re- 
marked that  he  rarely  left  the  Hurst  grounds,  and  thr.1 
what  exercise  he  took  was  on  the  terrace  in  front  of  the 
library,  or  on  the  lawn  below  it.  It  was  said  that  he  paced 
up  and  down  this  lawn  for  hours. 

It  was  said,  too,  that  he  rarely  addressed  a  servant  in  or 
out  of  the  house.  All  the  orders  came  through  the  valet 
Shimmers. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  Slummers.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  to  describe  him.  He  was  called  in  the  village 
"the  Shadow,"  because  he  was  so  thin  and  noiseless,  so 
silent  and  death-like. 

In  addition  to  his  noiselessness,  he  had  a  trick  of  going 
about  with  closed  eyes,  or  with  his  lids  so  lowered  that  it 
looked  as  if  his  eyes  were  closed. 

Bets  had  been  made  upon  the  supposed  color  of  those 

visional  organs,  but  had  never  been  decided,  for  never  by 

any  chance  did  he  look  anyone  in  the  face  when  speaking: 

and  when  by  some  accident  those  sphinx-like  lids  were 

raised   they  were  dropped  again  so  quickly  that  oxamina- 

ion  of  what  lay  behind  them  was  impossible. 

becretiveness  was  part  and  parcel  of  this  man.     He  never 

d  anything  openly.    When  he  gave  an  order  it  was  in  a 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  193 

round-about  way.  The  simplest  action  of  his  daily  life 
was  enveloped  in  mystery.  Even  his  meals  were  taken  in 
a  room  apart;  only  a  few  of  the  servants  knew  the  room 
he  occupied.  Then  he  seemed  ubiquitous.  He  was  every- 
where at  once,  and  turned  up  when  least  expected. 

With  noisless  step  he  came  and  went  about  the  house; 
now  in  the  servants'  hall,  now  in  the  library  closeted  with 
his  master,  now  in  the  stables  looking  under  his  lids  at  the 
horses,  counting,  so  said  the  grooms,  everjr  oat  that  went 
into  the  mangers.  Not  a  thing  was  done  in  the  house  but 
he  was  acquainted  with  it. 

And  he  knew  everything!  Not  a  secret  was  kept  from 
him.  Had  anyone  in  the  village  an  episode  in  his  life, 
which  he  hoped  and  deemed  hidden  and  forgotten,  Shim- 
mers knew  it,  and  managed  by  some  dropped  word  or  look 
to  let  the  miserable  man  know  that  he  knew  it. 

Before  he  had  been  at  Hurst  a  week  he  had  half  the 
servants  and  villagers  in  his  power. 

Power!  That  was  the  secret  mainspring  of  the  man's 
existence.  He  loved  power. 

Give  even  the  fiend  his  due.  This  man  had  one  good 
quality,  he  was  devoted  to  his  master.  Saving  this  one 
great  event  of  his  life — the  theft  and  loss  of  his  will — 
Stephen  trusted  him  in  everything. 

And  Slummers  admired  him.  In  his  eyes  Stephen  was 
the  cleverest  man  on  earth,  and  being  the  cleverest  man 
on  earth  Slummers  was  content  to  serve  him.  Yes,  Slum- 
mers was  devoted  to  his  master,  but  he  made  up  for  it  in 
his  detestation  of  the  rest  of  mankind  in  general,  and 
of  one  man  in  particular — Jack  Newcombe. 

Between  Jack — honest,  frank,  and  reckless  Jack — and 
the  serpent-like  Slummers  there  had  been  a  feud  which  had 
commenced  from  the  moment  of  their  first  introduction. 

On  that  occasion  Slummers  had  been  sent  with  a  mes- 
sage to  Jack's  room.  Jack  happened  to  be  out,  and  Slum- 
mers whiled  away  the  tediousness  of  waiting  by  opening  a 
drawer  in  Leonard's  table  and  reading  some  unimportant 
letters.  Jack,  coming  in  with  his  usual  suddenness,  caught 
him  and  kicked  him.  Jack  had  forgotten  it  long  ago, 
but  Slummers  had  not,  and  he  waited  for  the  time  till  he 
could  return  that  kick  in  his  own  fashion. 


194  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

The  days  passed,  and  Mr.  Hudsley's  task  appeared  to  be 
nearing  a  conclusion. 

One  morning  lie  came  up  to  the  Hurst,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  his  head  bent  as  usual,  and  asked  for  Stephen. 

Stephen  was  in  the  library,  and  Shimmers  noiselessly 
ushered  in  the  lawyer.  It  happened  to  be  what  Stephen 
would  have  called  one  of  his  bad  mornings.  He  was  seated 
at  the  table,  not  at  work,  but  looking  at  the  pile  of  papers 
with  lack-luster  eyes,  that  saw  nothing,  and  pale,  drawn 
face. 

Hudsley  had  seen  him  like  this  before,  but  his  keen  eyes 
looked  like  steel  blades. 

Stephen  started  and  put  his  thin,  white  hand  across  his 
brow. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "Good  morning.  Any  news  ? 
Sit  down." 

But  Hudsley  remained  standing. 

"I  have  no  news,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  may  say  that 
there  are  no  more  surprises  for  us.  You  know  the  extent 
of  the  fortune  which  you  hold !" 

He  did  not  say  "which  is  yours,"  or  "which  your  uncle 
left  ^  you."  Simply  "which  you  hold."  On  Stephen's 
strained  mind  the  phrase  jarred.  He  nodded  and  kept  his 
eyes  downcast. 

"The  business  that  lies  within  my  province,"  continued 
Mr.  Hudsley,  "is  completed.  What  remains  is  the  work 
of  an  accountant.  My  task  is  done." 

I  am  sure,"  said  Stephen,  smoothly,  "that  you  do  not 

need  any  assurance  of  my  gratitude " 

The  old  man  waved  his  wrinkled  hand. 
"I  have  been  the  legal  adviser  of  the  Davenant  family  for 
the  last  forty  years,"  he  said,  "and  I  know  my  duty.     I 
trust  I  have  done  it  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,"  he  said, 
sternly.    "And  now  I  have  come  to  you  to  request  you  to  re- 
ceive what  papers  and  documents  are  in  my  charge — my 
clerk,  Skettle,  will  hand  them  to  you  and  take  your  re- 
ceipt—and to  inform  you  that  I  wish  to  withdraw  from 
my  position  as  your  legal  adviser." 

Stephen's  pale  face  winced  and  shrunk,  and  he  raised  his 
eyes  suspiciously. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  105 

"Mr.  Hudsley,  you  surprise  me  !  May  I  ask  your  reasons 
•for  this  abrupt  withdrawal?" 

"My  reasons  are  my  own/'  said  Hudsley,  dryly ;  "I  may 
say  that  I  am  growing  old,  and  that  I  am  disinclined  to 
undertake  the  charge  of  so  large  an  estate." 

"Oh !"  said  Stephen,  with  a  sickly  smile.  "Such  a  reason 
is  unanswerable.  But  I  deeply  regret  it — deeply.  My 
uncle  always  trusted  you." 

"He  did  nothing  of  the  sort,"  interrupted  Mr.  Hudsley, 
sternly.  "He  trusted  no  man." 

"At  any  rate,  I  have  placed  implicit  and  well-merited 
confidence  in  you,"  said  Stephen. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  and  Stephen  trembled. 

"I — I  hope  I  shall  find  your  bill  of  costs  among  the  pa- 
pers ?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"No/'  said  Mr.  Hudsley.  "What  service  I  have  rendered 
you  I  consider  as  rendered  to  the  estate.  The  estate  has 
paid  me  sufficiently  hitherto.  I  need,  I  will  receive  no 
other  payment." 

"But—     "  urged  Stephen. 

Mr.  Hudsley  waved  his  hand. 

"I  am  quite  resolved,  sir.  If  you  should  need  any  in- 
formation respecting  any  business  that  has  occurred  up  to 
the  present,  I  am  at  your  service ;  but  for  the  future  I  beg 
to  withdraw.  Good-morning." 

Stephen  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"At  least,  Mr.  Hudsley,"  he  said,  "we  part  as  friends, 
notwithstanding  this  hasty  resolution  of  yours  ?" 

"It  is  not  hasty,  sir,"  said  Hudsley,  and  just  touching  the 
oold,  thin  hand,  he  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

Stephen  sank  into  a  chair,  and  wiped  the  drops  of  cold 
sweat  that  had  accumulated  on  his  brow. 

"He  suspects  me,"  he  muttered.  "He  suspects !  But  he 
suspects  only,  and  he  can  do  nothing,  or  he  would  have 
done  it.  Yes ;  he  is  powerless.  Let  him  go !  let  him  go  !" 
he  repeated ;  and  he  paced  the  room. 

Gradually  the  relief  of  Hudsley's  withdrawal  broke  upon 
him,  and  his  step  grew  lighter. 

"Yes,  let  him  go !  Now  I  am  free — I  am  my  own  mas- 
ter !  master  of  wealth  undreamed  of !  And  'I'll  use  it !  By 
Heaven,  I'll  be  happy !  Let  him  go !  I  meant  to  get  rid  of 


196  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  ;  OK, 


—  ne  has  saved  me  an  unpleasant  scene.     And  now  to 
work,  to  work  !" 

He  ran  rather  than  walked  across  the  room,  and  rang 
the  bell. 

Shimmers  opened  the  door  almost  instantly  and  stood 
motionless  and  silent. 

"Has  —  has  that  old  idiot  gone?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Yes,  sir/'  said  Slummers. 

Stephen  laughed  hoarsely. 

"Let  the  past  go  with  him  I"  he  said.  "Slummers,  go  to 
my  room  and  bring  a  roll  of  papers  from  my  bureau- 
drawer.  You  know  what  they  are  !  Plans  and  estimates. 
Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  ?" 

Slummers  raised  his  eyes. 

"Of  course  you  do  !"  said  Stephen  with  the  same  laugh. 
"I'm  going  to  make  a  clean  sweep  here,  Slummers.  I'm 
going  to  pull  half  this  beastly  place  to  the  ground.  Altera- 
tions, Slummers  —  alterations  that  will  make  Hurst  a  place 
for  a  man  to  live  in,  not  a  tomb,  as  it  is  at  present." 

"You  are  right,  sir,  it  is  a  tomb/'  said  Slummers,  in  his 
low,  hollow  voice. 

Stephen  shuddered. 

"Yes,  yes  ;  but  I  mean  to  alter  that.  I'll  make  it  fit  to 
live  in,  fit  to  bring  a  young  bride  to.  Fetch  the  plans, 
Slummers  ;  I'll  go  over  them  at  once,  this  minute.  Yes,  I 
will  change  the  place  till  the  very  trees  shall  not  know  it. 
Fetch  the  plans  !  I'll  pull  the  whole  of  it  down,  every  stick 
and  stone!  I  hate  it—  hate  it!  I'll  change  the  name! 
I  can  do  it.  I  can  do  anything  now,  or  what  is  the  use 
of  this  money?  Fetch  the  plans!  Fetch—  —  "  He  broke 
off  suddenly  and  staggered. 

Slummers  sprang  nervously  forward  and  caught  him,  and 
putting  him  into  a  chair,  poured  out  some  neat  brandy  and 
gave  it  to  him. 

Stephen  tugged  at  his  collar  and  struggled  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  sank  back  helplessly. 

Stop  !"  he  said,  "stay  here.    Don't  go.     I—  I  can  hear 
V01S~~an  old  man's  voice—  what  is  it  ?" 

Nothing—  nothing,"  said  Slummers.    "Be  calm  sir." 

t   am   calm!"   retorted    Stephen.      "Ifs   this 
if  s  fc,n  of  noiseg  j 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  19? 

and — get  the  time  table.     I'll  go  to  London  to-morrow, 
Shimmers.    Yes,  I'll  go  to  London !" 

And  the  master  of  Hurst,  the  owner  of  a  million  and 
more,  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  fingered  the  time  table 
with  trembling  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"Jack  Newcombe !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Davenant,  looking  at 
the  card  which  Mary  had  brought  in.  "Jack  Newcombe !" 
she  repeated  a  second  time.  "My  dear,  come  here !" 

Una  was  sitting  beside  the  open  window,  a  book  in  her 
lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sun  setting  just  behind  the  chim- 
neys. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  glowing  as  if 
the  sun  were  reflected  in  them ;  but  she  did  not  move. 

Mrs.  Davenant  hurried  across  the  room  with  the  card  in 
her  hand. 

"Una,  dear,  see  here,"  she  said,  nervously.  "Here  is 
Jack  Kewcombe  !  You've  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

Una,  feeling  guilty  and  deceitful,  hung  her  head. 

Her  heart  beat  fast.  For  two  days  she  had  waited  and 
watched  for  him — never  for  a  moment  had  he  been  absent 
from  her  mind. 

And  now  he  was  here,  in  the  next  room. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I — I  remember." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  know 
what  he  wants — do  you  ? — but  of  course  you  don't  I" 

Una  flushed  crimson  to  her  very  neck. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant, fidgeting  with  the  card. 

Una  did  not  move. 

"Why  ?"  she  asked,  raising  her  eyes  for  the  first  time. 

Mrs.  Davenant  moved  her  head  nervously. 

"Because — I  don't  think  Stephen — I  mean — Jack  New* 
combe  is  the  sort  of  man  you  ought  to  know." 

"But,"  said  Una,  softly  and  with  a  steady  look  in  her 
dark  eyes,  "I  do  know  him  already." 

Mrs.  Davenant  stared. 

"You  know  him?    Jack  Newcombe?" 

Una  nodded. 


198  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OB, 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  met  him  up  t-he  river. 
I  saw  him  at  Lady  Bell's he  is  a  friend  of  hers— 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  look- 
ing distressed  and  frightened. 

Una  felt  guilty. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  in  reply.  "I  think  it  was  be- 
cause I  knew  you  would  feel  angry." 

Mrs.  Davenant  stared  at  her.  It  was  like  the  reply  of  a 
child  in  its  simple,  naked  truth. 

"Well,  well,"  she  said,  with  a  troubled  voice,  "of  course 
you  couldn't  help  it,  and  I  couldn't  help  it.  And" — here 
the  door  opened  quietly,  and  Jack's  head  appeared,  and 
Mrs.  Davenant  started. 

Seeing  that  they  were  alone,  Jack  came  in  with  his  usual 
coolness,  though  his  heart  beat;  and  he  crossed  the  room, 
and  took  Mrs.  Davenant's  hand  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

And  the  poor  woman  melted  in  a  moment,  as  she  always 
did  when  Jack  was  actually  present.  As  a  matter  of  simple 
truth,  she  was  really  as  fond  of  him  as  if  he  had  been  her 
own  son,  and  but  for  Stephen,  Jack  would  have  seen  her 
oftener. 

He  had  lost  his  mother  in  early  boyhood,  and  the  kind- 
hearted,  affectionate,  timid  Mrs.  Davenant  had  often  dried 
his  boyish  tears  and  held  him  in  her  arms.  Even  now,  not- 
withstanding Jack's  wickedness,  of  which  Stephen  made  the 
most,  her  heart  went  out  toward  him. 

He  had  not  been  near  her  for  some  months,  nearly  a 
year,  all  through  Stephen,  and  she  had  almost  given  him 
up;  but  Jack's  kiss  revived  all  the  old  tenderness.  And 
what  woman  could  resist  his  handsome  face  and  frank, 
manly  way  ? 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  said— and  "ma'am"  sounded  in  her 
ears  and  in  Una's  almost  like  "mother" — "and  how  are 
you?^  And  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

^Y  es,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  nervously. 

"Then  why  do  you  keep  me  in  the  draughty  hall  for  half 
anjiour?  Do  you  want  me  to  catch  cold  ?" 

Half  an  hour  ?"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant.    "I'm  sure 
you  haven't  been  there  three  minutes." 

"Two  minutes  and  a  half  too  long,"  he  said,  smiling. 
He  was  giving  Una  time  to  recover  herself. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  199 

"You  never  come  to  see  me  now,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant,  looking  up  at  him  sadly. 

"And  now  I  do,  you  keep  me  outside.  Besides,  you  never 
ask  me.  Who's  that  in  the  back  room,  ma'am  ?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  started ;  she  had  almost  forgotten  Una. 

"You  know  her!"  she  said. 

Jack  had  got  his  cue. 

"Oh,  it's  Miss  Eolfe,"  he  said,  and  then  he  crossed  the 
room  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Una  rose,  and  without  a  word  put  her  hand  in  his,  her 
eyes  downcast,  lest  the  love  which  beamed  in  them  should 
escape  against  her  will. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Miss  Eolfe  once  or  twice  lately." 

Then  he  turned  away  from  her  and  began  talking  to  Mrs. 
Davenant,  as  if  Una  were  not  in  the  room. 

It  was  just  what  Una  wanted.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  speak,  and  for  the  present  it  was  happiness  enough  to 
have  him  in  the  same  room  with  her,  and  to  hear  his  voice. 

And  Mrs.  Davenant,  now  that  the  first  shock  was  over, 
was  glad  enough  to  sit  down  and  listen  to  the  frank, 
musical  voice — so  unlike  Stephen's  measured,  modulated 
tone. 

Presently  she  said  in  a  low,  nervous  tone : 

"Jack,  I  am  so  sorry !" 

Jack  nodded,  and  his  face  dropped. 

"About  the  poor  squire  ?  Yes !  Never  mind.  It  is  all 
right.  No !  It's  all  wrong  for  me,  but  all  right  for 
Stephen." 

"But  Stephen  doesn't — doesn't  want  it  all,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Jack  looked  another  way ;  he  had  a  different  opinion. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  "don't  let  us  worry  about  it — 
you  and  I.  It's  all  past  and  gone,  and  there's  no  help 
for  it." 

"But-  you  have  worried,"  sjie  said.  "You  don't  look  so 
well  as  you  did,  Jack.  I  hope — I  do  hope,"  and  her  voice 
faltered. 

Jack's  face  flushed  for  a  moment. 

"You  are  going  to  scold  me,  as  usual,"  he  said.    "Well, 


200  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  :  OR, 

go  on,  it  will  bo  your  last  opportunity,  ma'am.  I've  re- 
formed/' 

There  was  something  in  his  tone,  something  so  earnest 
and  grave,  that  she  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"Oh,  Jack,  I  wish — I  wish  you  would  he  more  steady/' 

"Wait  and  see,''  he  said,  gravely,  and  in  a  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Davenant  wiped  her  eyes,  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 
It  was  near  the  dinner  hour. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?"  said  Jack,  in  his  blunt  way, 
and  he  took  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

Mrs.  Davenant  hesitated  a  moment. 

"You  wouldn't  stop  to  dinner,  if  I  asked  you,"  she  said, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

Una's  heart  gave  a  great  leap. 

"Try  me,"  said  Jack.  "Yes,  I'll  stay.  Now  don't  look 
frightened  and  disappointed,  or  I'll  go." 

Mrs.  Davenant  rose,  with  her  rare  laugh, 

"I  must  go  and  tell  them,"  she  said,  "or  you'd  be 
starved,"  and  she  left  the  room. 

Jack  went  and  stood  beside  the  silent,  motionless  figure 
and  looked  down  at  her  with  infinite  yearning  and  infinite 
sorrow.  He  had  come  resolved  to  tell  her  the  truth  and  to 
bid  her  to  forget  him. 

"Una,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  in  an  instant  his  grand  resolu- 
tion, built  up  with  such  care  for  the  last  two  days,  crum- 
bled into  dust.  With  something  like  a  groan  he  was  on 
hie  knee  and  caught  her  to  his  breast. 

For  a  moment  she  resigned  herself  to  the  exquisite  joy 
of  his  embrace,  and  with  downcast  eyes  drooped  beneath 
his  passionate  kisses,  then  with  an  effort  she  regained  pos- 
session of  the  soul  which  had  slipped  from  her  into  his,  as 
it  were,  and  gently  disengaged  herself. 

"No,  no,  you  frighten  me!"  she  murmured,  as  Jack's 
arm  drew  her  toward  him  again. 

"My  darling !  There !"  and  he  kissed  her  hands.  "How 
can  I  do  it  ?  It  is  too  much  to  ask  of  mortal  man." 

"Do  what?"  she  murmured. 

Jack's  face  paled. 

"Nothing— nothing,"  he  said. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  201 

"And  are  you  really  going  to  stay  ?"  she  murmured,  her 
eyes  beaming  with  pleasure. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  came  on  purpose.  If  she  had  not 
asked  me  I  meant  to  ask  her." 

"And  you  love  her,  don't  you?  Is  she  not  good — and 
isn't  it  cruel  to  deceive  her,"  said  Una,  and  she  hung  her 
head. 

"She's  the  dearest  old  lady  in  the  world,"  said  Jack,  en- 
thusiastically, who  would  have  loved  a  gorilla,  much  less 
Mrs.  Davenant,  if  it  had  been  kind  to  Una.  "Why,  she  was 
a  second  mother  to  me  until  Stephen  grew  up — and  she  has 
been  kind  to  you.  I  can  see  that  for  myself.  But  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  it — all  about  everything  tonight.  Think, 
my  darling !  we  shall  be  together  here  all  the  evening !  No 
noisy  crowd  to  prevent  us  talking — no  interference.  I 
shall  want  to  know  everything.  Hush !  here  she  comes," 
and  with  another  swift  kiss  he  rose  and  went  into  the  next 
room.  Una  stole  out  and  upstairs  to  dress. 

Quite  unsuspicious,  Mrs.  Davenant  came  back  smiling. 
She  had  ordered  one  or  two  of  Jack's  favorite  dishes,  and 
had  come  to  ask  him  about  the  claret. 

"There  is  some  of  the  Chateau  la  Rose,  Jack.  Would 
you  like  to  have  it  warmed  a  little  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Let  them  put  a  bottle  in  the  kitchen  somewhere,"  said 
Jack.  "It  will  get  right  there  by  dinner  time.  Eight 
o'clock  you  dine,  I  know.  I'll  just  run  home  and  dress, 
and  be  back  punctually  to  the  minute." 

"It  will  be  the  first  time  in  your  life  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Davenant. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  then  Jack  was  punctual. 
At  five  minutes  to  eight  a  hansom  dashed  up  to  the  door, 
and  Jack,  in  evening  dress,  with  his  light  overcoat,  strode 
up  the  steps  and  into  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  empty,  but  a  minute  afterward  he  heard  the  rustle 
of  a  woman's  dress,  and  turned  as  Una  entered  the  room. 
She  wore  the  dress  she  had  worn  at  Lady  Bell's,  and  Jack, 
who  had  not  yet  seen  her  in  her  "war  paint" — as  he  would 
have  described  it — was  startled;  and  Una,  as  she  saw  the 
look  of  surprise  and  rapt  admiration,  felt,  like  a  true 
woman,  a  glow  of  satisfaction  and  pleasure.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  beautiful,  but  that  he  should  think  her  so. 


202  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"My  darling,"  ho  inurmurod,  holding  her  at  arm's 
length  ;  "what  magic  charm  do  you  possess  that  enables  you 
to  grow  more  beautiful  every  time  T  see  you  ?  Or  is  it  all  a 
mistake,  and  are  you  another  Una  than  the  Una  of  Warden 
Forest  ?" 

Una  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  trustfully,  and 
turned  her  face  up  to  him. 

"Tell  me,"  she  murmured,  "which  Una  do  you  like 
best?" 

Jack  thought  a  moment. 

"I  love  them  both  so  well,"  he  said,  "that  I  can't  decide." 
And  he  kissed  her  twice.  "One  is  for  the  Una  of  the 
Forest,  and  one  for  the  Una  of  the  world/'  he  said. 

She  had  only  time  to  slip  from  his  arms  when  Mrs. 
Davenant  entered. 

"What  do  you  say  to  punctuality,  ma'am  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
triumphantly,  as  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  lead  her  into  the 
dining-room. 

Jack  was  a  favorite,  for  all  his  wickedness,  wherever  he 
went.  It  was  no  sooner  known  that  he  was  to  dine  in  the 
house,  that  the  cook  awoke  to  instant  energy  and  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Master  Jack's  a  gentleman  worth  cooking  a  dinner  for," 
she  declared.  "It's  a  waste  of  time  to  worry  yourself  for 
women  folk;  they  don't  know  a  good  dinner  from  a  bad 
one;  but  Master  Jack — oh,  that's  a  different  thing!  He 
knows  what  clear  soup  ought  to  be ;  and  he  shall  have  it 
right,  too." 

Mrs.  Davenant  herself  was  surprised  at  the  elaborate 
little  dinner. 

"I  wish  you'd  dine  with  us  every  day,  my  dear  Jack,"  she 
said. 

Jack  glanced  demurely  at  Una,  in  time  to  catch  the 
sparkle  in  her  dark  eyes. 

'Tm  afraid  you'd  soon  get  tired  of  me,"  he  said.  "But, 
seriously,  I  should  improve  the  cooking;  not  this  day's,  I 
mean  but  the  usual  ones.  You've  got  a  treasure  of  a  cook, 

9  9* 

ma  am. 

And,  of  course,  this  was  carried  down  by  Mary  to  the 
empress  of  the  kitchen,  and  her  majesty  was  rewarded  for 
all  her  trouble. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HElIi?  i»()3 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  she  demanded.  "Master  Jack 
knows." 

Jack's  appetite  was  always  good,  in  love  or  out  of  it,  and 
this  evening  would  have  been  the  happiest  in  his  life  but 
for  certain  twinges  of  conscience. 

What  should  he  say  to  Leonard,  the  faithful  friend,  when 
he  got  home  and  was  asked  how  he  had  parted  from  Una? 
However,  he  stifled  conscience — it  is  always  easy  to  do  that 
at  dinner  time. 

"Will  you  have  some  more  claret?"  asked  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant,  as  she  and  Una  prepared  to  leave  him.  "You  can 
smoke  a  cigarette,  if  you  like ;  but  open  the  window  after- 
ward." 

"I  won't  have  any  more  claret,  and  I  won't  smoke,"  said 
Jack.  "I'll  just  finish  this  glass  and  come  with  you  for  a 
cup  of  tea." 

Five  minutes  of  solitude  spent  in  going  over  every  look 
and  word  of  the  lovely  creature  he  had  won,  were  enough 
for  Jack. 

He  found  them  seated  at  the  window;  Una  in  a  low 
chair,  almost  at  Mrs.  Daven  ant's  feet.  They  both  looked 
up,  as  if  glad  to  see  him ;  and  Mrs.  Davenant  at  once  rang 
for  tea  and  coffee. 

Una  rose,  and  officiated  with  calm  self-possession  and 
accustomed  ease — no  one  would  have  guessed  that  her  ac- 
quaintance with  a  London  drawing-room,  and  its  accom- 
panying forms  and  ceremonies,  was  only  that  of  a  few 
weeks — and  brought  Jack  his  cup. 

In  taking  it,  he  tried  to  touch  her  hand,  and  nearly  upset 
the  cup. 

"Take  care,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Has 
he  spoiled  your  dress,  my  dear  ?" 

"No,"  said  Una,  her  face  red  as  a  rose.  "It  was  my 
fault." 

"Yes ;  it  was  her  fault,"  said  Jack,  significantly. 

"You  always  were  clumsy,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  Mrs. 
Davenant.  "You  are  too  big." 

"I'll  get  myself  cut  down  a  foot  or  two,"  said  Jack. 

Happy !  They  were  as  happy  as  any  two  women  in  Lon- 
don, notwithstanding  Jack's  wickedness. 

Jack  glanced  at  the  piano. 


204  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

"I  wish  you  could  play/'  he  said  to  Una. 

Mrs.  Davcnant  looked  at  him. 

"How  do  you  know  she  cannot  ?"  she  said. 

Jack  looked  embarrassed. 

"I  rather  fancy  I  heard  U — Miss  Eolfe — admit  as  much. 
But  she  can  sing,  I  know." 

"And  you  can  play  for  her/'  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "You 
used  to  play  very  nicely  when  you  were  a  boy,"  and  she 
sighed. 

Jack  looked  dubious  for  a  moment,  then,  with  sudden 
assurance  and  confidence,  jumped  up. 

"Let  me  try.    Will  you  come,  Miss  Rolfe?" 

Tina  followed  him  to  the  piano,  and  Jack  turned  out  all 
the  music  from  the  canterbury  on  the  floor. 

"Come  and  see  if  there  is  anything  you  know,"  he  said, 
and  Una  knelt  down  beside  him. 

0-f  course  Jack's  hand  was  on  hers  in  a  moment* 

"I  nearly  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  just  then,"  he  said. 
"I  must  be  careful." 

"But  why?"  asked  Una.  "Why  may  we  not "  she 

paused,  then,  having  raised  her  eyes,  she  continued — "why 
may  she  not  know?" 

"So  she  shall,"  said  Jack,  "all  in  good  time.  I  can't  con- 
sent to  share  my  secret  all  in  one  evening !  Besides " 

"Cannot  you  find  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  sleep- 
ily, from  the  next  room. 

Jack  stuck  up  some  music  on  the  stand  and  sat  down 

He  had  played  well  at  one  time,  in  a  rough  fashion,  and 
had  a  wonderful  ear,  and,  quite  regardless  of  the  music,  he 
launched  into  a  prelude. 

"Sing  the  song  you  sang  the  other  evening,  my  darling," 
he  whispered.  "I  remember  every  note  of  it." 

Una  obeyed  instantly.  Free  from  any  spark  of  vanity, 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  shyness  which  assails  self-conscious 
people.  Jack,  with  his  acute  ear,  played  a  running  accom- 
paniment easily  enough;  it  was  true  he  had  remembered 
every  note  of  it. 

"You  nightingale,"  he  whispered,  looking  tip  at  her,  and 
the  fervent  admiration  of  his  eyes  made  her  heart  throb. 

"Now  sing  something  yourself,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  205 

Jack  thought  a  moment,  his  fingers  straying  over  the 
keys,  then  softening  his  full  baritone  voice  as  much  as 
possible,  he  sang — "Yes,  dear,  I  love  but  thee !" 

It  was  an  old  English  song,  one  of  the  sweetest  of  the  old 
melodies  which  even  now  have  power  to  rouse  a  I  lose  audi- 
ence to  enthusiasm. 

Una  stood  behind  him  entranced,  bewitched;  he  sang 
every  word  to  her. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  love  but  thee  1" 

Oh,  Heaven,  it  was  too  great  a  joy ! 

Unconsciously  she  drew  nearer  and  put  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  timidly,  caressingly,  and  as  the  music  ceased, 
Jack  turned  and  caught  it  prisoner  in  his. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  love  but  thee !"  he  murmured. 

"And  I" — she  breathed,  her  eyes  melting  with  passionate 
tenderness — "and  I  love  but  thee." 

"My  darling/'  he  whispered,  "do  you  know  what  you  are 
giving  me — your  precious  self — and  to  whom  you  are 
giving  it?" 

The  voice  fell ;  conscience  was  awake  again. 

"Una,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  passionately.  "I  am  not 
worthy  of  your  love " 

"I  love  but  thee  I"  she  breathed,  softly. 

"You  do  not  know,  you  who  are  so  ignorant  of  the  world, 
what  it  means  to  wed  a  man  like  myself,  penniless,  worth- 
less—oh, Heaven,  forgive  me !" 

"I  love  but  thee !"  she  breathed,  for  all  her  answer. 

Jack  bent  his  head  over  her  hand. 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  murmured,  bitterly,  "I  cannot 
give  her  up/' 

Then  he  looked  up. 

"Have  you  no  fear,  Una  ?  Do  you  trust  me  so  entirely  ? 
Think,  can  you  face  poverty  and  all  its  trials.  Dear,  I  am 
very  poor,  worse  than  poor," 

She  smiled  an  ineffable  smile. 

"And  I  am  rich — while  I  have  your  love,1' 

Then  suddenly  her  voice  changed,  and  with  a  look  of 
terror  she  bent  over  him,  almost  clingingly. 

"What  is  it  you  are  saying  ?  Jack !  Jack !  you  will  not 
leave  me  ?" 


206  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

Jack  started  to  his  feet,  and  regardless  of  waking  Mrs. 
Pavenant,  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Never,  by  Heaven  P  lie  exclaimed. 

There  was  one  moment  of  ecstatic  joy,  then  suddenly 
Tina  drew  back;  and  with  a  gesture  of  alarm,  pointed  to 
the  looking-glass.  Jack  raised  his  head,  and  with  a  sud- 
den cry  drew  her  nearer  to  him  as  if  to  protect  her. 

Reflected  in  the  glass  was  the  thin  figure  of  Stephen 
Davenant,  looking  rather  like  a  ghost  than  a  man — silent, 
motionless,  with  pallid  face,  and  set,  rigid  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

White  and  haggard,  Stephen  stood  in  shadow-way,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Jack  and  Una  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
astonishment  and  rage  beyond  all  description. 

Jack  was  too  astonished  by  what  seemed  as  much  an  ap- 
parition as  a  reality,  to  withdraw  his  arm  from  round 
Una's  waist,  and  it  was  she  who  first  recovered  self-posses- 
sion enough  to  cross  over  to  Mrs.  Davenant  and  wake  her. 

Her  movement  seemed  to  recall  Stephen  to  a  sense  of  the 
situation,  and  in  a  moment  he  rose  and  coped  with  it. 

Another  man,  a  weaker  man,  coming  thus  suddenly  upon 
what  looked  like  the  wreck  of  all  his  deeply-laid  plans, 
upon  seeing  the  girl,  whom  it  was  all-important  he  should 
secure  for  himself,  in  the  arms  of  the  man  he  hated  and 
feared  most  in  the  world,  would  have  given  vent  to  his 
wrath  and  disappointment.  But  not  so  Stephen.  By  a 
vast  effort,  he  suppressed  the  evil  glance  in  his  eyes,  forced 
a  smile  to  his  compressed  lips,  and  came  across  the  room 
with  outstretched  hand  and  an  expression  of  warmest  and 
most  affectionate  greeting. 

"My  dear  Jack !"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  soft  tones,  almost 
rough  in  their  warmth  and  geniality.  "Now,  this  is  a 
pleasant  surprise.  How  do  you  do  ?  how  do  you  do  ?" 

But  almost  before  Jack  knew  it,  Stephen  had  seized  him 
by  the  hand,  and  was  swinging  it  convulsively,  smiling  so 
that  all  his  teeth  glittered  and  shone  in  the  candle-light. 

Jack  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  returned  the  greeting 
cordially;  indeed,  what  else  could  he  do,  seeing  that  he 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  207 

was  in  Stephen's  mother's  house,  and  making  love  to  Ste- 
phen's protegee? 

"Quite  a  surprise !"  said  Stephen,  laughing ;  and  then, 
still  talking  to  Jack,  he  crossed  over  and  bent  down  to  kiss 
his  mother.  "How  do  you  do,  my  dear  mother?  Xow 
don't  be  angry  at  my  taking  you  so  "unexpectedly." 

"Angry,  my  dear  Stephen!"  faltered  Mrs.  Davenaut; 
and  indeed,  it  was  not  anger  so  much  as  fear  that  shone 
in  the  timid  eyes. 

Then,  having  got  himself  completely  under  control, 
Stephen  raised  his  eyes  to  Una,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"And  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Eolfe?  I  hope  your  health 
has  not  suffered  in  this  close  London  of  ours.  May  I  say 
that  there  are  no  signs  of  such  an  ill  result  in  your  face  ?" 

Una  gave  him  her  hand,  and  smiled  at  him  in  her  quiet, 
grave  way. 

"I  am  very  well,  thank  you/'  she  said. 

"That's  right,"  said  Stephen— "that's  right !" 

And  he  stood  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  rubbing 
his  white,  soft  hands,  and  smiling  as  if  he  were  over-run- 
ning with  the  milk  of  human  kindness. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Davenant  had  risen,  and  was  fluttering 
about  nervously. 

"Have  you  dined,  Stephen  ?  We  can  get  some  dinner,  or 
— or  something  directly." 

"My  dear  mother,  I  dined  at  my  rooms  two  hours  ago ; 
but  if  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  now;  but  don't  trouble — it 
does  not  matter  in  the  slightest." 

Fresh  tea  was  brought  in,  and  Una,  as  usual,  officiated. 
Stephen,  leaning  over  a  chair-back,  talked  to  Jack  and  Mrs. 
Davenant,  but  his  eyes  turned  continually  on  the  graceful 
figure  and  the  beautiful  profile;  and  not  one  of  them 
guessed  the  rage  and  fury  which  boiled  and  simmered 
under  his,  calm  and  amiable  exterior. 

Already,  as  if  some  one  had  told  him,  he  knew  that  Una 
had  been  out  into  the  world.  Her  dress,  her  manner  told 
him  that ;  and  while  he  smiled  lovingly  at  his  mother,  he 
was  crying  out  inwardly : 

"Fool !  fool !  to  trust  Una  to  her." 

He  took  his  cup  of  tea,  his  hand  as  steady  as  a  rock,  and 
chatted  with  Jack,  full  of  the  pleasantcst  interest. 


208  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OK, 

Where  had  he  been,  and  what  had  he  been  doing?  and 
was  he  in  those  eccentric  but  charming  rooms  of  his  in  the 
Temple  still?  and  how  was  his  friend  Leonard  Dagle? 

He  was  full  of  questions,  questions  which  Jack  answered 
in  his  curt,  brief  fashion.  And  all  the  while  Stephen  was 
weighing  the  situation,  realizing  all  its  danger  and  peril, 
and  determining  on  a  course  of  action. 

"Just  one  more  cup,  Miss  Eolfe,  if  you  please.  Tea  is 
my  favorite  beverage — I  am  quite  an  old  washerwoman !" 

Then  he  took  his  cup,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  not  in  a  particularly  low  tone,  but  in  his 
softest  manner — "yes,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  your  health  has 
not  suffered  in  London.  I  trust  you  have  been  happy  ?" 

Una  looked  up  with  a  faint  flush  on  her  face. 

"I  have  been — I  am  very,  very  happy/'  she  said,  and 
Jack's  face  flushed  too  with  the  delight  at  the  accent  on 
"I  am." 

"That  is  right/'  said  Stephen,  with  the  air  of  an  old,  old 
friend,  "and  I  hope  my  mother  has  found  some  amusement 
for  you — that  she  has  shown  you  something  of  the  great 
world." 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  and  she  glanced  at  Mrs.  Davenant, 
from  whose  pale  face  all  traces  of  the  calm  serenity  which 
had  reigned  there  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening 
had  entirely  fled — "yes,  I  have  been  very  gay — is  not  that 
the  word  ?  I  have  been  to  a  ball,  and  to  a  picnic,  and  have 
seen  all  the  sights." 

"And  where  was  the  ball?' 

"At  Lady  Earlsle/s/'  said  Una. 

Stephen  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled.    . 

"My  dear  Miss  Bolfe,  you  have  penetrated  the  most  ex- 
clusive of  social  rings !  Lady  Berkley's !  Come,  that  is 
very  satisfactory ;  and  Jack— Jack  is  my  cousin— well,  very 
nearly  cousin,  you  know,  I  hope  he  has  made  himself  useful 
and  agreeable  ?" 

Una  glanced  shyly  and  gravely  at  Jack— a  glance  that 
told  everything,  even  if  Stephen  had  not  seen  her  in  Jack's 
arms. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "Mr.  Newcombe  has  been 
very — kind." 

Stephen  smiled  and  showed  all  his  teetK. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  20!) 

"I  am  afraid  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  me  to  do/' 
he  said. 

Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  he  added : 

"You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  news  of  your 
father." 

Una  looked  up  breathlessly.  The  question  had  been  hov- 
ering on  her  lips. 

Stephen  nodded. 

"Yes,  he  wrote  me  from  a  place  in  Surrey  called — tut — 
tut !  The  name  has  escaped  me !  They  are  quite  well,  and 
send  their  fondest  love." 

Una's  eyes  filled. 

"Why  did  they  leave  the  cottage  so  suddenly  ?"  she  said. 

"Because  your  father  wished  for  a  change.  I  told  you 
truth,  you  see,  when  I  said  that  your  departure  would  be 
good  for  him,  and  wean  him  from  his  seclusion." 

''Why  does  he  not  come  to  see  me  ?"  asked  Una. 

"He  is  coming,  my  dear  Una,"  said  Stephen.  "But  at 
present  he  is  very  much  engaged,  and  quite  satisfied  with 
my  favorable  report  of  your  health  and  happiness.  But 
come,  I  must  not  make  you  homesick.  Were  you  not  play- 
ing when  I  came  in  ?" 

Una  flushed. 

"Jack — Mr.  Newcombe — was  playing,"  she  said;  "I  was 
singing." 

"Pray  don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  Stephen,  gen- 
ially, "or  I  shall  feel  like  an  intruder,  and  walk  off  again. 
Jack,  go  on  with  your  music,  my  dear  fellow." 

But  Jack  declined  promptly,  though  politely. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  be  off,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch, 
and  then  at  Una,  wistfully. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Stephen.  "I  have  a  whole  budget  of 
news  to  tell  you.  I  dare  say  you  wonder  why  I  haven't 
been  up  before  this;  but  there  was  so  much  to  do — a  sur- 
p rising  deal." 

Jack  nodded  curtly.  He  certainly  didn't  want  to  finish 
up  this  particular  evening  by  hearing  Stephen's  talk  of  the 
Hurst. 

"  .Vo  doubt,"  he  said.  "You  must  come  and  dine  with  mo 
and  tell  me.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Davenant !" 

Mrs.  Davenant  gave  him  her  hand. 


210  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

"Must  you  go,  Jack?"  she  said,  tremulously.  "You — 
you  will  come  again  ?" 

"Most  certainly  I  will/7  said  Jack,  significantly. 

Una  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  piano  to  gather  up  the 
music  which  Jack,  with  his  usual  untidiness,  had  scattered 
about. 

He  followed  her,  and  knelt  down  as  if  to  help  her. 

"Good-night,  my  darling!"  he  murmured,  touching  her 
arm  caressingly.  "Don't  be  afraid." 

Una  raised  her  arm  and  touched  it  with  her  lips. 

"Afraid — of  whom  ?" 

"Of — nobody !"  said  Jack,  rather  ungrammatically. 

"Not  of  Mr.  Davenant,  who  has  been  so  kind  ?"  she  whis- 
pered, with  a  surprised  look. 

Jack  bit  his  lip. 

"Xo,  no ;  certainly  not.    Oh,  yes,  he  has  been  kind." 

Then  with  a  long,  loving  look  into  her  sweet  face  he 
crossed  the  room. 

"Good-night,  Stephen." 

"You  are  really  going?  Well,  then,  I'll  go  with  you," 
said  Stephen.  "Mother  will  not  mind  my  running  away 
tonight,  I  am  rather  tired." 

And  he  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  went  to  the  door. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  forgotten  Una;  Jsut  ha 
turned  suddenly  and  held  out  his  hand,  a  bland,  benevolent 
smile  on  his  pale  face. 

"Good-night,  good-night,"  he  murmured,  softly,  and  fol- 
lowed after  Jack,  who,  the  moment  he  reached  the  pave- 
inent,  looked  out  for  a  hansom;  but  Stephen  linked  his  arm 
in  Jack's,  and  said : 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry,  my  dear  Jack  ?  If  not,  I'll  walk  a 
little  way  with  you;  or  will  you  come  toward  my  rooni^?" 

Jack  consented  to  the  latter  course,  by  turning  in  the 
direction  of  the  "Albany"  in  silence. 

He  felt  that  Stephen  was  playing  a  part — why  or  where- 
fore he  could  not  guess — and  now  that  he  had  recovered 
from  his  surprise  at  Stephen's  sudden  appearance,  his  old 
mistrust  and  dislike  were  returning  to  him. 
^  They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  few  moments,  then 
Stephen  said : 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  few  words  with  you,  my  dear 


WHO  WAS  TUP:  HEIR?  211 

I  should  have  written,  but  I  Ml  that  I  could  make  myself 
understood  better  by  word  of  mouth." 

Jack  nodded. 

"Of  course,  what  I  have  to  say  concerns  my  poor  uncle's 
death  and  its  consequences." 

Jack  was  silent  still.  He  would  not  help  him  in  the 
slightest. 

"I  cannot  but  feel  that  those  consequences,  while  they 
have  been  distinctly  beneficial  to  me,  have — and  to  put  it 
plainly,  and  I  wish  to  speak  plainly,  my  dear  Jack — have 
been  unfortunate  for  you." 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  grimly. 

"Well,"  said  Stephen,  softly,  "I  had  hoped,  I  still  hope, 
that  you  will  allow  me  the  happiness  of  setting  right,  to 
some  extent,  the  wrong — yes,  I  will  say  wrong — done  you 
by  my  uncle's  will." 

"That's  impossible,"  said  Jack,  gravely. 

"But,  my  dear  Jack,  why  not?  It  is  my  right.  Have 
you  any  idea  of  the  fortune " 

"Not  the  slightest,"  said  Jack,  breaking  in  abruptly, 
"and  it's  no  business  of  mine;  large  or  small,  I  hope  you'll 
enjoy  it.  It  was  the  squire's  to  do  as  he  liked  with,  and  I 
suppose  he  did  as  he  liked;  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

Stephen  winced  and  bit  his  lip. 

"And  now,"  said  Jack,  quietly,  but  with  his  heart  beating 
wildly,  "I  want  a  word  with  you,  Stephen." 

"Say  on,  my  dear  Jack.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do 
for  you " 

"Yes,  there  is,"  said  Jack.  "I  want  to  know — I  want 
you  to  tell  me — something  respecting  Miss  Rolfe." 

"Miss  Eolfe !"  said  Stephen,  softly. 

"Yes,"  continued  Jack.    "You'll  want  to  know,  before  T 
go  any  further,  on  what  grounds  I  ask  for  information. 
I'll  tell  you.    I  have  asked  Miss  Eolfe  to  be  my  wife." 
*     Stephen  feigned  a  start  of  astonishment. 

"My  dear  Jack,  isn't  that  rather  sudden— rather  prema- 
ture?" 

"It  may  be  sudden,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  prema- 
ture; that's  for  Miss  Rolfe  to  decide.  And  she  has  de- 
cided." 

Stephen  moistened  his  lips ;  they  burned  like  coals. 


212  OXLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

"She  ha?  n  coop  tod  you  ?" 

"She  lias."  said  Jack,  who  folt  reluctant  to  utter  one 
word  more  than  was  necessary. 

Stephen  pulled  up  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Jack,  I  congratulate  you.  I  congratulate 
you,"  he  exclaimed,  fervently.  ''You  are  indeed  a  happy 
man."' 

Jack,  confounded,  allowed  his  hand  to  he  wrung  by  the 
soft,  white  palm  that  burned  hot  and  dry. 

"You  are  a  lucky  fellow,  my  dear  Jack.  Miss  Eolfe  is 
one  in  a  thousand.  I  question  if  there  is  a  more  beautiful 
girl  in  London — and  her  disposition.  You  are  indeed  a 
lucky  fellow." 

"Thanks,  thanks !"  said  Jack,  still  overwhelmed  by  this 
flood  of  good  will.  "And  now,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me 
what  I  had  better  do  in  the  affair!  You  see  I  find  her 
visiting — settled,  rather,  at  your  mother's  house,  and 
neither  she  nor  your  mother  seem  to  know  why  or  where- 
fore  " 

Stephen  interrupted  him  with  a  pressure  of  the  arm. 

"I  understand,  my  dear  Jack ;  your  anxiety  for  informa- 
tion is  only  natural.  I  am  very  glad  I  came  up  this  even- 
ing— very  glad!  And  now,  as  I  feel  rather  tired,  would 
you  mind  coming  up  to  my  rooms  ?  and  we'll  have  a  han- 
som, after  all. 

Jack  hailed  a  cab,  and  they  were  rattled  to  the  Albany. 

Of  course  they  could  not  talk,  and  Stephen  had  therefore 
^time  to  perfect  his  scheme;  for  he  had  already  begun  to 
1  plot  and  plan. 

The  door  of  the  chambers  was  opened  by  Shimmers,  his 
tall,  square  figure  dressed  in  black,  his  discreet,  shifty  eyes 
absolutely  veiled  under  his  lids. 

"Let  us  have  some  Apollinaris  and  the  liquor-case, 
Slummers,"  said  Stephen,  "and  that  box  of  ciga»£  which 
Mr.  Newcombe  liked.  Sit  down,  my  dear  Jack." 

And  he  wheeled  forward  a  chair  facing  the  light,  and 
took  one  for  himself,  so  that  his  own  face  should  be  shaded. 

Jack  looked  round  the  room  while  Slummers  brought 
the  tray. 

The  four  walls  were  nearly  covered  with  books,  all  of 
them  of  the  dryest  and  most  serious  kind.  Where  any  space 


WHO  WAS  THE  J  LK1K  't  ->  \  \\ 

was  left,  it  was  filled  up  with  portraits  of  eminent  diviix- 
and  philanthropists,  and  every  article  in  the  room  wa< 
neatly  and  methodically  arranged.  In  fact,  it  presented 
as  marked  a  contrast  to  Jack's  rooms  as  it  was  possible  to 
conceive. 

Jack  had  not  been  inside  it  for  years,  but  he  remem- 
bered distinctly  how  he  used  to  loathe  the  room  and  its 
"fixings." 

"Now,  my  dear  Jack,  pray  help  yourself — those  cigars  I 
know  you  approve ;  I  heard  you  praise  them  at  the  Hurst, 
and  I  brought  a  box  at  once." 

"Thanks,"  said  Jack,  and  he  lit  a  cigar. 

Stephen  mixed  the  Apollinaris  and  brandy;  and  leaned 
back  serene  and  amiable. 

"And  now,  my  dear  Jack,  I  am  ready  to  answer  all  ques- 
tions." 

Jack  looked  down  and  frowned  thoughtfully.  He  did 
not  know  how  to  put  them.  Stephen  smiled  maliciously 
behind  his  hand. 

"You  want  to  know  how  it  comes  about  that  Miss  Kolfe 
is  under  my  mother's  charge — under  my  charge,  I  may 


say 


"Under  yours  ?"  said  Jack,  grimly. 

Stephen  nodded. 

"It  is  a  very  simple  affair,  Jack.  There  is  no  mystery. 
The  fact  is,  I  have  known  Miss  Kolfe's  father  for  some 
years.  He  is  a  very  good  fellow,  but  very  eccentric." 

"I  know,"  said  Jack ;  "I've  seen  him." 

Stephen  started,  and  concealed  his  expression  of  surprise 
by  reaching  for  his  glass. 

"Ah,  then,  no  doubt,  you  noticed  that  his  appearance  and 
manner  does  mot  correspond  with  the  station  he  occupies  ?" 

"I  did,"  said  Jack. 

"Ye^r  yes,  just  so.  Well,  my  dear  Jack,  my  poor  friend 
Eolfe  has  been  in  early  life  unfortunate — money  matters, 
which  I  never  quite  understand.  Like  most  men  of  his 
kind,  he  got  disgusted  with  the  world  and  hid  himself — 
there  is  no  other  word  for  it.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  hide 
yourself  and  quite  another  to  bury  your  children.  My 
friend  Eolfe  felt  this  when  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that  his 
daughter  had  grown  from  a  child  to  a  young  woman,  and 


214  0 XL  Y  (.)  X K  LO  V  K  ;  OK, 

like  a  sensible  man  he  applied  to  one  who  was  conversant 
with  the  world,  and  one  in  whom  he  could  have,  I  trust, 
full  confidence — myself." 

Jack  sat  silently  regarding  the  white,  calm  face  with 
grim,  observant  eyes. 

"He  did  not  appeal  to  an  old  friendship  in  vain.  I  un- 
dertook the  charge  of  Miss  Kolfe  on  one  condition.  I  may 
say  two — one  on  her  side,  one  on  mine.  Hers  was  that  she 
should  live  with  my  mother,  under  her  protecting  wing,  as 
it  were ;  mine  was  that  I  should  be  the  absolute  guardian  of 
the  young"  girl  committed  to  my  charge." 

Jack  stared. 

"You  are  Una's  guardian  ?"  he  said,  at  last,  with  uncon- 
cealed surprise,  as  Gideon  Kolfe's  curse  upon  the  race  of 
Davenants  flashed  upon  his  memory. 

Stephen  Davenant  smiled. 

"You  are  surprised,  my  dear  Jack.  But  think !  It  is 
very  natural.  Unless  I  had  unquestionable  control  over  the 
young  lady,  how  could  I  answer  for  her  safety?  How 
guard  her  against  the  attacks  of  fortune  hunters " 

Jack  started. 

"Fortune  hunters!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  Una  is  an  heiress  ?" 

Stephen's  face  had  flushed  and  turned  deadly  pale. 

He  had  actually  been  thinking  of  Una  Davenant  while 
he  had  been  talking  of  Una  Rolfe. 

"Yoa  did  not  hear  me  out,  my  dear  Jack,"  he  said,  softly, 
recovering  his  composure  instantly.  "I  was  going  to  say 
against  the  attack  of  fortune  hunters  who  might  besiege 
her  under  the  impression  that,  as  my  ward,  she  would  be 
possessed  of  wealth,  instead  of  being,  as  you  know,  abso- 
lutely penniless." 

Jack  nodded. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  said,  grimly,  "I  was  not  so  deceived." 

"My  dear  Jack !"  exclaimed  Stephen,  reproachfully,  "do 
you  suppose  that  I  do  not  know  that !  Y^ou,  who  are  the 
soul  of  honor  and  disinterestedness,  are  not  likely  to  be 
mistaken  for  a  fortune  hunter  by  anyone,  least  of  all  by  me, 
who  know  and  love  you  so  well !" 

Jack  winced,  as  the  vision  of  Lady  Bell  rose  before  his 
eyes. 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  2 1  r, 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  impatiently. 

"Well,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  Stephen  with  a  smile,  arid 
rubbing  his  hands  softly,  "is  it  not  rather  for  you  to  go  on  ? 
I  am  Una's  'guardian,  you  are  her  lover." 

"I  see,"  said  Jack,  rising  and  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room.  "You  want  me  to  ask  your  consent  formally.  Well, 
I  do  so." 

Stephen  laughed  as  if  at  an  excellent  joke. 

"What  a  grim,  thorough-going  old  bulldog  you  are,  my 
dear  Jack!"  he  exclaimed  affectionately.  "You  ask  my 
consent,  as  if  you  did  not  know  that  you  have  it,  and  my 
best,  my  very  heartiest  wishes  into  the  bargain.  But,  Jack, 
don't  you  see  why  I  am  so  pleased — why  this  makes  me  so 
happy  ?  It  is  because  now  you  will  be  compelled  to  do  me 
the  favor  of  taking  a  share  of  the  poor  squire's  money !" 

Jack  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"You  see,  my  dear  fellow !  you  can't  marry  on  nothing — 
now,  can  you  ?  Love  must  have  a  cottage,  and — but  I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  dear  fellow !  I  am,  perhaps,  going  too 
far.  Much  to  my  grief  and  regret  you  have  never  confided 
in  me  as  I  should  have  wished,  and  perhaps — I  hope  that 
it  may  be  so — you  have  some  means " 

Jack  paced  up  and  down,  the  perspiration  standing  on 
his  knitted  brow. 

In  the  ecstatic  joy  which  had  fallen  upon  him  like  a 
glamour  during  those  few  short  hours  with  Una,  he  had 
absolutely  forgotten  that  he  was  penniless,  and  in  debt,  and 
without  a  prospect  in  the  wide  world. 

And  now  it  all  rushed  back  upon  him;  every  softly- 
spoken  word  of  Stephen's  fell  upon  him  like  a  drop  in  an 
icy  shower  bath,  and  awoke  him  from  his  dream  to  the 
stern  reality. 

What  was  he  to  do?  Great  Heaven,  was  he  actually 
driven  to  accept  Stephen's  charity  ? 

A  shudder  ran  through  him,  a  pang  of  worse  than 
wounded  pride. 

Become  a  pensioner  of  Stephen  Davenant's !  No,  it  was 
simply  impossible.  White  and  haggard  with  the  struggle 
that  was.  going  on  within  him,  he  turned  upon  the  smiling 
face. 

"What  you  want — what  you  propose,  is  impossible,"  he 


316  ONLY  ONE  LOVE:  OR, 

said,  hoarsely.     "I  cannot   and  will  noi   do  it.     I  would 
rather  beg  my  bread — 

Stephen  smiled.  It  was  a  delicious  moment  for  him,  and 
he  prolonged  it. 

"My  dear  Jack !  what  would  Mr.  Gideon  Eolfe  say  if  I 
gave  his  daughter  to  a  beggar?  I  use  your  own  words.  It 
is  ridiculous.  But  come,  sit  down.  Grieved  as  I  am  at 
what  I  must  call  your  mistaken  obstinacy,  I  can't  help 
being  touched  by  it.  You  always  were  willful,  my  dear 
Jack,  always.  Alas !  it  was  that  very  willfulness  that 

estranged  you  from  my  uncle " 

"No  more  of  that,"  said  Jack,  sternly. 
Stephen  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand. 
"And  it  would,  if  another  man  were  in  my  place,  rob  you 
of  your  sweetheart;  but  it  shall  not.    I  am  determined  to 
prove  to  you,  my  dear  Jack,  that  my  desire  to  be  a  friend  is 
sincere  and  true.     Let  me  think.     There  may  be  some 
loophole  in  your  pride  which  I  can  creep  in  at." 

Jack  went  back  to  his  seat  and  lit  another  cigar,  and 
Stephen  appeared  lost  in  thought,  but  in  reality  he 
watched  through  his  fingers,  and  gloated  over  the  despair 
and  trouble  depicted  on  Jack's  miserable  countenance. 

"Yes,  I  have  it.  Come,  Jack,  you  won't  refuse  assist- 
ance when  it  comes  from  the  hand  of  her  Majesty?  You 
won't  object  to  a  government  appointment  ?" 

"A  government  appointment  ?"  said  Jack,  vaguely. 
Stephen  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on.  "By  a  singular  chance  I  have  ac- 
quired some  influence  with  the  present  government.  One 
of  these  men  has  a  seat  in  Wealdshire,  which  really  hangs 
on  the  Hurst  influence.  The  squire  never  interfered,  but 
I  could  do  so;  and — you  see,  my  dear  Jack — a  snug  little 
sinecure,  say  of  a  thousand  a  year !  It  is  not  much,  it  is 
true;  but  Una  has  not  been  accustomed  to  wealth  so  long 
as  to  feel  a  thousand  a  year  to  be  poverty." 

Jack  rose  and  paced  the  room.  "Was  he  dreaming,  or 
was  this  a  different  Stephen  to  the  one  he  knew  and  dis- 
liked ?  He  had  heard  of  sudden  wealth  as  suddenly  trans- 
forming the  nature  of  a  man.  Had  Stephen's  nature  un- 
dergone this  marvelous  change? 

He  doubted  and  mistrusted  him,  but  here  was  the  abso- 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  21; 

lute  evidence.  What  could  Stephen  gain  by  this  gener- 
osity? Nothing — absolutely  nothing.  II  'was  sli;m-v. 
passing  strange;  but  who  was  he  that  he  should  refuse  io 
believe  in  the  generosity  and  virtue  of  another  num. 
especially  when  that  generosity  was  exerted  on  his  behalf? 

Struggling  against  his  suspicion  and  prejudice,  Jack 
strode  round  the  table  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Stephen,  I — I  have  wronged  you.  You  must  be  a  good 
fellow  to  behave  in  this  way,  and  I — well,  I  have  been  a 
brute,  and  don't  deserve  this  on  your  part." 

Stephen  winced  under  the  hard  grip  of  the  warm,  honest 
hand. 

"Not  a  word  more,  my  dear  Jack ;  not  a  word  more,"  he 
exclaimed.  "This — this  is  really  very  affecting.  You 
move  me  very  much." 

And  he  pressed  his  spotless  handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

Jack's  ardor  cooled  at  once,  and  the  old  disgust  and  sus- 
picion rose ;  but  he  choked  them  down  again,  and  sat  down. 

"Not  a  word  more,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  gulp,  as  if  he 
were  swallowing  a  flood  of  tears.  "I  have  long,  long  felt 
your  coldness  and  distrust,  my  dear  Jack,  but  I  vowed  to 
live  it  down,  and  prove  to  you  that  you  have  wronged  me. 
Believe  me  that  my  good  fortune — my  unexpected  fortune 
— was  quite  imbittered  to  me  by  the  thought  that  you 
would  misjudge  me." 

Jack  pulled  at  his  cigar  grimly.  Stephen  was  on  the 
wrong  track,  and  he  saw  it,  and  hastened  to  change  it. 

"But  now,  my  dear  Jack,  we  shall  understand  each 
other.  You  will  believe  me  that  I  have  your  welfare  deeply 
at  heart.  Who  else  have  I  to  think  of — except  my  mother, 
my  dear  mother?  And  we  may  conclude  that  our  little 
negotiation  as  suitor  and  guardian  is  ended.  Eh,  Jack? 
You  shall  have  the  appointment  and  Una — lucky  fellow 
that  you  are — and  I  shall /be  rewarded  by  seeing  you 
happy." 

Jack  nodded.  The  mention  of  Una  had  filled  him  witfi 
gratitude.  He  could  not  forget  that  he  owed  her  in  two 
ways  to  Stephen. 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Stephen,"  he  said,  "and  you 
deserve  your  luck.  After  all,  you'll  make  a  better  master 
of  Hurst  than  I  should.  You'll  take  care  of  it." 


218  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  :  OR, 

Stephen  sighod.     Tie  was  facing  to  gloat  again. 

"I  don't  know.  I  wish  to  do  my  duty.  It  is  an  immense 
sum  of  money,  Jack  ;  immense.'"' 

Jack  nodded  again. 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  he  said,  easily.  "I  don't  envy  you.  I 
did  once,  and  not  very  long  ago.  But  I  rank  Tina  ahove 
the  Hurst  even,  and  if  I  have  her,  you  are  welcome  to  the 
Hurst." 

Stephen  winced,  and  looked  at  him  from  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.  Was  there  any  significance  in  the  speech?  But 
Jack's  face  was  open  and  frank,  as  usual. 

"That's  a  bargain,''  said  Stephen,  laughing. 

Jack  thought  a  moment. 

"But  what  about  Mr.  Rolf e  ?"  he  said,  dubiously. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  said  Stephen,  confidently.  "I  will 
manage  him.  And,  by  the  way,  I  think  for  the  present  that 
we  had  better  keep  our  little  engagement  quiet.  You  un^ 
derstand?  He  had  better  hear  it  from  my  lips,  and — you 
quite  see,  Jack?" 

Jack  didn't  quite  see.  He  would  have  preferred  to  go  to 
Gideon  Rolfe  and  have  the  matter  out — fight  it  out  if  need 
be — but  he  was,  so  to  speak,  in  Stephen's  hands. 

"Very  well,"  he  said. 

"And  now  have  another  cigar,  my  dear  'Jack,  you've 
eaten  that  one." 

But  Jack  was  anxious  to  go.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  to 
think  over  this  strange  interview,  and  realize  that  Una 
was  his. 

"Well,  if  you  wHl  go,"  said  Stephen,  reluctantly;  "but 
mind,  I  shall  expect  you  to  make  this  your  second  home.** 

Jack  glanced  round  rather  dubiously. 

"And  of  course  we  shall  see  you  at  the  Square  ?'* 

This  invitation  Jack  accepted  heartily,  and  once  morfe 
he  wrung  Stephen's  hand. 

"Good-night,  good-night,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  Stephen, 
and  he  took  a  candle  from  the  table  to  light  him  down  the 
stairs,  and  smiled  till  every  tooth  in  his  head  showed  like  a- 
grave-stone. 

^  Then,  as  Jack's  heavy  step  faded  away  and  was  lost, 
Stephen  went  back  into  the  room,  closed  the  door,  and  sink- 


WHO  WAS  THE  IlElli ?  2 1  :> 

ing  into  a  chair  sat  motionless,  with  folded  arms  and  hag- 
gard face. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  muttered,  "1  have  played  the  best  game— 
I  have  gulled  him.  Another  man  would  have  attempted 
to  thwart  him  openly,  and  have  raised  a  storm.  My  plan  is 
the  wiser.  But  to  think  that  fate  should  have  played  me 
such  a  trick !  and  I  thought  she  was  safe  and  secure !"  and 
he  wiped  the  drops  of  cold  sweat  from  his  knitted  brow. 
"Fool,  fool  that  I  was!  Better  to  have  left  her  there  in 
the  heart  of  the  Forest !  And  yet — and  yet — "  he  mused, 
"it  is  not  so  bad.  The  man  might  have  been  more  powerful 
and  cunning  than  the  idiot  whom  I  have  in  the  hollow  of 
my  hand.  Curse  him !  curse  him !  I  never  look  on  his 
face  but  I  tremble.  I  hate  him !"  and  he  stretched  out  his 
closed  hand  as  if  with  a  curse. 

As  he  did  so  it  came  into  contact  with  Jack's  glass.' 

In  a  paroxysm  of  fury  he  caught  up  the  glass  and  dashed 
it  into  the  fire-place. 

It  relieved  and  brought  him  to  his  senses. 

With  a  gesture  of  self-contempt  he  rose  and  rang  the 
bell. 

Shimmers  stole  in  with  his  noiseless  step  and  stood  be- 
side the  table  with  downcast  eyes,  which,  nevertheless,  had 
taken  in  the  broken  tumbler. 

"I've  broken  a  glass,  Slummers,"  said  Stephen,  with  af- 
fected carelessness.  "Never  mind,  leave  it  till  the  morning. 
Now,  then,  what  have  you  learned  ?" 

Slummers  cleared  his  throat,  and  barely  opening  his  thin 
lips,  replied: 

"A  great  deal,  considering  the  time,  sir.  The  young  lady 
at  Mrs.  Davenant's " 

"I  know  all  about  her,"  said  Stephen,  breaking  in  impa- 
tiently. "What  about  Mr.  Newcombe?" 

Nowise  embarrassed,  Slummers  wiped  his  dry  lips  with 
a  handkerchief  as  spotless  as  his  master's. 

"It  is  as  you  expected,  sir.  Mr.  Newcombe  is  in  difficul- 
ties." 

"Ah!"  said  Stephen,  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"He  has  been  playing  and  giving  paper.  There  are  some 
old  bills  out,  too.  These  are  in  the  hands  of  Moss  the 
money-lender." 


220  OX'.Y  O.Xi:  LOYK;  OK, 

Stephen  nodded  and  rubbed  bis  bands. 
"I  know  .Moss — a  bard  man.    Go  on." 
"But  they  say/"  continued  Shimmers,  raising  his  eyes  for 
a  moment  to  his  master's  face,  "that  Mr.  Newcombe  is  go- 
ing to  set  tilings  rig] it  by  marrying  an  heiress." 
Stephen  smiled  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
"Oh,  they  do,  do  they;  and  who  is  this  most  fortunate 
young  lady  ?" 

"Lady  Isabel  Earlsley." 
Stephen  started  forward. 
"What !" 

"Lady  Isabel  Earlsley,"  repeated  Shimmers,  without  the 
slightest  change  of  voice  or  countenance. 

"No — it's  a  lie !"  said  Stephen,  with  a  chuckle.  "Where 
did  you  hear  it  ?" 

"At  the  club.  It  is  the  talk  of  town,  sir.  Mr.  Newcombe 
has  been  in  close  attendance  upon  her  ladyship  for  some 
time.  They  say  that  her  ladyship's  brougham  nearly  ran 
over  him,  and  that  she  took  him  home.  It  is  true;  her  own 
coachman  told  me." 

Stephen  leaned  back  and  hid  his  face  with  his  hand,  his 
busy  brain  at  work  on  this  last  turn  of  the  wheel. 
"Go  on,"  he  said. 
"That  is  all,  sir." 

Stephen  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  he  turned 
to  the  writing  table  and  wrote  for  some  minutes. 

"Go  to  Moss  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  "and  tell  him 
not  to  press  Mr.  Newcombe,  and  I  don't  think  he  will  re- 
quire more  than  the  hint — but  you  may  say  I  will  buy  all 
Mr.  Newcombe's  bills  at  a  fair  price.  Mind !  I  want  every 
I  0  U  and  bill  that  Mr.  Newcombe  gives.  You  under- 
stand?" 

"I  understand,  Mr.  Stephen,"  said  Shimmers,  and  a 
faint,  malicious  smile  stole  over  his  face. 

"And  if  Mr.  Moss  likes  to  oblige  Mr.  Newcombe  with  a 
little  loan,  I  will  take  the  bill.    You  understand  ?" 
Slummers  nodded. 

"Here  is  the  letter  to  Moss  for  his  own  satisfaction.  He 
will  not  mention  my  name." 

Slummers  took  the  note.  Stephen  passed  his  hand  over 
his  forehead,  and  turned  his  back  to  the  light. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  2*1 

'"Any — any  other  news,  Shimmers?" 

Shimmers  smiled  behind  his  hand. 

"I  have  been  to  Cheltenham  Terrace.  We  were  rightly 
informed.,  sir.  Old  Mr.  TYeherne  is  dead,  and  Miss  Tre- 
herne  has  disappeared." 

Stephen  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"Indeed,"  he  said.  "Very  good.  Let  me  see,  is  there 
anything  else  ?" 

Slummers  coughed. 

"Nothing,  sir,  except  to  remind  you  that  you  have  to 
speak  at  the  charitable  meeting  tomorrow  night." 

"Ah,  yes,  thank  you,  very  good,  Slummers.  Be  good 
enough  to  hand  me  the  last  charitable  reports.  Good- 
night." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Happy !  If  ever  two  young  people  were  happy,  Una  and 
Jack  were.  To  Una  the  days  passed  like  a  happy  dream 
time.  Her  sky  was  without  a  cloud ;  it  almost  seemed  as  if 
the  world  had  been  made  for  her,  so  entirely  did  every- 
thing lend  itself  to  her  enjoyment. 

Every  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  Jack's  quick, 
buoyant  step  was  heard  ascending  the  stone  steps  of  the 
house  in  Washington  Square,  and  he  would  come  march- 
ing into  the  breakfast  room  with  some  palpable  excuse 
about  his  just  happening  to  pass,  and  Mrs.  Davenant  would 
smile  her  gentle  welcome,  and  Una — well,  Una's  eyes  were 
eloquent,  if  her  tongue  was  mute,  and  would  speak 
volumes. 

And  Jack  would  lounge  about  for  an  hour,  telling  them 
all  the  news,  and  perhaps  smoking  a  cigarette,  just  inside 
the  conservatory;  and  Una  was  sure  to  find  an  excuse  for 
being  near  him. 

Indeed,  if  that  young  lady  could  be  within  touching  dis- 
tance of  her  god  and  hero,  she  seemed  passing  content.  He 
was  the  very  light  of  her  life,  soul  of  her  soul ;  every  day 
seemed  to  increase  the  passionate  devotion  of  her  first,  her 
maiden  love,  for  the  wild,  young  ne'er-do-well. 

And  she  was  repaid.  Jack  thought  that  there  never  had 
been,  sinee  Eve  began  ilie  sex,  such  a  marvel  of  beauty  and 


222  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

grace  and  virtue  a?  Una.     UP  would  sit  for  half-an-hour 
smoking  and  watching  IHT  in  silence. 

"Didn't  one  of  those  clever  fellow?  say  of  a  certain 
woman  that  to  know  her  was  a  liberal  education  ?"'  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Davenant.  "Well,  I  say.  that  to  be  in  Una's  pres- 
ence, to  watch  her  moving  about  in  that  quiet,  graceful 
way  of  hers,  and  then  to  catch  a  smile  now  and  again,  is 
like  reading  a  first-class  poem ;  better,  indeed,  for  me,  be- , 
cause  I  don't  go  in  for  poetry/*' 

Xot  that  these  young  lovers  spent  all  their  time  in  si- 
lently watching  each  other.  Every  day  Jack  arrived  with 
some  plan  for  their  amusement  and  enjoyment.  Some- 
times it  would  be : 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  today?  What  do  you 
say  to  taking  the  coach  to  Guildford,  getting  a  snack  there, 
and  back  in  the  evening  ?" 

Una's  face  would  light  up,  and  Mrs.  Davenant  would 
smile  agreeably,  and  in  half-an-hour  they  would  be  ready, 
and  Jack,  as  proud  of  Una's  beauty  as  if  it  were  unique, 
would  escort  them  to  the  "White  Horse"  in  Piccadilly,  and 
away  they  would  spin  through  the  lovely  Surrey  valleys  to 
that  quaintest  of  old  towns  in  the  hills.  Sometimes  Jack 
himself  would  take  the  ribbons,  and,  with  Una  by  his  side, 
"tool  the  truck,"  as  he  called  the  handsome  coach,  back  to 
town. 

Then,  again,  he  never  came  without  a  box  for  one  of  the 
theaters  or  a  stall  for  a  concert ;  and  though  not  over  fond 
of  classical  music  himself,  was  quite  content  to  sit  and 
watch  the  look  of  rapt  delight  in  Una's  face  as  she  listened 
absorbed  in  Joachim's  wonderful  violin. 

But  most  of  all,  I  think,  they  enjoyed  their  days  on  the 
river,  when  Jack,  attired  in  his  white  flannels,  would  pull 
the  two  ladies  up  to  Walton  or  Chertsey,  and  give  them 
tea  in  one  of  the  quiet,  river-side  inns. 

Ah !  those  evenings,  those  moonlight  nights,  when  tho 
boat  drifted  down  stream,  and  the  two  young  people  sat, 
hand  in  hand,  whispering  those  endless  exchanges  of  confi- 
dence which  go  to  make  up  lovers'  conversations. 

It  was  wonderful  that  Mrs.  Davenant  did  not  catch  cold, 
but  Jack  took  great  care  of  her,  and  wrapped  her  up  in 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  223 

his  thick  ulster;  and  she  never  seemed  to  grow  tired  of 
witnessing  their  happiness. 

Sometimes  Jack  would  ask  Stephen  to  join  them,  but 
Stephen  would  always  find  an  excuse.  Xow  it  was  because 
he  had  an  engagement  with  the  lawyers;  at  another  time 
he  had  promised  to  speak  at  some  philanthropic  meeting,  or 
had  promised  to  dine  at  the  club.  He  would,  however, 
occasionally  dine  at  the  Square,  or  drop  in  and  take  a 
cup  of  tea;  and  wore  always  the  same  friendly  smile  and 
genial  manner. 

Jack  had  become  quite  convinced  that  he  had  done 
Stephen  a  great  deal  of  injustice,  and  now  thought  that 
Stephen  was  everything  that  was  kind  and  thoughtful. 

It  \ras  only  at  chance  times,  when  Jack  happened  to 
catch  the  pale  face  off  its  guard,  that  the  old  doubts  rose 
to  perplex  and  trouble  him;  but  then  he  always  set  them 
to  rest  by  asking  himself  what  Stephen  could  possibly  have 
to  gain  by  acting  as  he  did. 

Of  course,  all  these  outings  by  land  and  water  cost  a 
great  deal  of  money,  but  Jack  had  found  Moss,  the  money- 
lender, most  suddenly  and  strangely  complaisant. 
.  Instead  of  dunning  him  for  what  was  owing,  Moss  ac- 
tually pressed  him  to  borrow  more,  and  Jack,  always  too 
careless  in  money  matters,  was  quite  ready  to  oblige  him. 

"I  can  pay  him  out  of  my  salary,  when  I  get  the  appoint- 
ment," he  said  to  Leonard,  in  response  to  the  latter's  re- 
monstrances and  warnings. 

"Yes,  when  you  get  it,"  said  Leonard. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Jack.  "Do  you  mean  to  hint 
that  Stephen  isn't  to  be  relied  upon.?" 

"I  haven't  the  honor  of  knowing  much  of  Mr.  Dave- 
nant,"  said  Leonard,  "and  so  can't  say  whether  he  is  more 
reliable  than  most  public  men  who  promise  places  and  ap- 
pointments; but  I  do  know  that  men  have  grown  gray- 
headed  while  waiting  for  one  of  those  said  places." 

"You  don't  know  Stephen,"  said  Jack,  confidently.  "He 
can  manage  anything  he  likes  to  set  his  mind  on.  He  is 
»ot  one  of  my  sort.  He  can't  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet.  There,  stop  croaking,  and  come  and  dine  at  the 
Square." 


224  0  \  L V  0  X  I-:  LOVE ;  OR, 

And  Leonard  would  go.  for  he  and  Una  had,  as  Jack 
said,  "cottoned  io  one  another."' 

Una  felt  all  sorts  of  likings  and  gratitade  for  the  man 
who  had  always  been  Jack's  friend,  and  none  of  the  jeal- 
ousy which  some  girls  feel  for  their  lover's  bachelor  ac- 
quaintances. 

"I  am  sure  he  is  good  and  true,  Jack,"  she^aid. 

"Good !  There  isn't  a  better  man  in  England,"  Jack 
affirmed.  "And  he's  as  true  as  steel.  Poor  old  Len !" 

"Why  do  you  pity  him?"  said  Una,  who  had  not  alto- 
gether lost  her  way  of  asking  direct  questions. 

"Well,  you  see,  there's  a  lot  of  romance  about  Len,"  said 
Jack ;  and  he  told  her  about  Leonard's  meeting  with  Laura 
Treherne. 

"And  he  has  never  found  her  ?"  said  Una. 

"Not  from  that  day  to  this,"  answered  Jack. 

"And  yet  he  still  remembers  and  loves  her,"  murmured 
Una.  "Yes,  I  like  your  friend,  Jack,  and  I  do  hope  he 
will  meet  with  this  young  lady  and  be  happy.  I  should  like 
all  the  world  to  be  as  happy  as  I  am !" 

"Ah,  but  don't  you  see  all  the  world  aren't  angels  like 
you,  you  know,"  retorted  Master  Jack,  kissing  her. 

Though,  in  accordance  with  Stephen's  advice,  the  en- 
gagement had  not  been  made  public,  the  outside  world  was 
beginning  to  get  an  inkling  of  what  was  going  on  in  Wal- 
mington  Square. 

Jack's  friends  at  the  club  chaffed  him  on  the  unfre- 
quency  of  his  visits. 

"There's  some  mischief  the  Savage  is  planning/'  -aid 
.Dalrymple.  "You  scarcely  ever  see  him  here  now :  he 
doesn't  play,  and  shuns  the  bottle  as  if  it  were  poison,  and 
he's  altogether  changed.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he 
were  to  take  to  public  meetings  like  that  distant  cousin  of 
his,  Stephen  Davenant." 

"It  is  my  opinion,"  said  Sir  Arkroyd  Hetley,  "that  lie 
spends  all  his  time  at  Walmington  Square,  for  my  man 
sees  him  going  and  coming  at  all  hours.  The  Savage  is  in 
love." 

And  gradually  those  rumors  spreading,  like  the  ripple  of 
a  stone  in  a  pool,  reached  Park  Lane,  and  got  to  Lady 
Bell's  ears. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  2-v'0 

She  had  gone  out  of  town  for  a  week  or  two,  and  had, 
of  course,  seen  nothing  of  Jack  or  Una,  but  on  her  return 
she  drove  to  the  Square. 

Una  and  Mrs.  Davenant  were  sitting  by  the  tea  table, 
and  wondering  whether  Jack  would  come  in. 

Lady  Bell's  entrance  made  quite  a  little  flutter. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Davenant,  and  how  do  you  do, 
Wild  Bird  ?"  and  she  kissed  Una,  and  holding  her  at  arm's 
length,  scanned  her  smilingly.  "What  have  you  been  do- 
ing to  look  so  fresh  and  happy?"  Here  Una's  face  over- 
spread with  blushes.  "What  a  child  it  is !  But  see,  here 
I  am  just  from  the  seaside,  and  as  pale,  or  rather  as  yellow 
as  a  guinea,  while  you  are  like  a  dairy-maid.  My  dear  girl, 
you  positively  beam  with  happiness/' 

Mrs.  Davenant  and  Una  exchanged  glances — glances 
that  were  not  lost  upon  Lady  Bell's  acuteness. 

"Is  there  a  secret?"  she  said,  quickly.  "Have  you 
come  into  a  fortune?  But,  no,  that  can't  be  it,  for  I 
know  that  I've  never  been  thoroughly  happy  since  I  came 
into  mine." 

"You  always  look  happy,  Lady  Bell,"  said  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant. 

"My  dear,  don't  judge  by  appearances,"  said  Lady  Bell, 
in  her  quick  way.  "I  am  not  always  happy;  most  of  my 
time  I  am  bored  to  death;  I  am  always  worried  and  hur- 
ried. Oh,  by-the-way,  speaking  of  worries,  can  you  rec- 
ommend me  a  maid  ?  My  own,  a  girl  who  came  from  the 
colonies  with  me,  and  swore,  after  a  fashion,  never  to  leave 
me,  has  gone  and  got  married.  I  should  be  angry  if  I 
didn't  pity  her." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  the  happiness  of  the  married 
state,  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Davenant,  while  Una  looked  on 
smilingly. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Bell,  shortly.  "Men  are  tyrants  and 
deceivers ;  there  is  no  believing  a  word  they  say.  A  woman 
who  marries  is  a  slave,  and " 

She  broke  off  sharply,  for  the  door  opened  and  Jack  en- 
tered. A  warm  flush  rose  to  Lady  Bell's  face,  and  she 
was  too  much  occupied  in  concealing  it  to  observe  the  simi- 
lar flush  which  flooded  Una's  cheeks. 

Jack  was  striding  in  with  Una's  name  on  his  lips,  but 


226  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

ho  stopped  short  at  sight  of  Lady  Bell,  and  the  flush" 
seemed  an  epidemic,  for  it  glowed  under  his  tan. 

"I  thought  you  were  at  Brighton,  Lady  Bell,"  he  said, 
as  he  shook  hands. 

"So  I  was — three  hours  ago.  I  came  away  suddenly; 
got  tired  and  bored  of  it  before  I  had  been  there  three  days. 
If  there  is  one  place  more  unendurable  than  another  it  is 
the  fashionable  watering-place.  I  bore  it  until  this  morn- 
ing, and  then  poor  Mrs.  Fellowes  and  I  made  a  bolt  of  it, 
or  rather  I  bolted  and  dragged  her  with  me.  I  left  Lord 
Dalrymple  and  Sir  Arkroyd  in  happy  unconsciousness  of 
our  desertion/' 

"Then,  at  this  moment,  they  are  wandering  about  the 
Parade  in  despair,"  said  Jack,  laughing.  And,  as  he 
laughed,  he  looked  from  one  girl  to  the  other,  making  a 
mental  comparison.  Yes,  Lady  Bell  was  beautiful,  with 
a  beauty  undeniable  and  palpable,  but  how  it  paled  and 
grew  commonplace  beside  Una's  fresh,  spiritual  loveliness. 

He  had  held  her  hand  for  a  moment  when  he  entered, 
and  now,  as  he  carried  the  tea  cup,  he  got  an  opportunity 
of  touching  her  arm,  lovingly,  caressingly. 

He  longed  to  take  her  by  the  hand  and  say  to  Lady 
Bell: 

"This  is  my  future  wife,  Lady  Bell,"  but  he  remem- 
bered Stephen's  advice,  and  was  on  his  guard,  so  much 
so  that  though  she  watched  them  closely,  Lady  Bell  saw 
no  sign  of  the  existing  state  of  things. 

It  was  singular,  but  since  Jack's  arrival  she  did  .not 
seem  at  all  bored  or  worried,  but  rattled  on  in  her  gayest 
mood. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  I  left  town  ?"  she 
asked  Una.  "I  hope  Mr.  Newcombe  has  made  himself  use- 
ful and  attentive;"  and  she  looked  at  Jack,  who  nodded 
coolly  enough,  though  Una's  face  crimsoned. 

"Yes,  I've  been  doing  the  knight  errant,  Lady  Bell. 
Mrs.  Bavenant  and  I  are  old  friends— relations,  indeed'." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "I  hear  your  son,  Mr.  Ste- 
phen, is  in  London." 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Bavenant's  face  lost  its  brightness. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  nervously ;  "yes,  he  is  in  London." 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Lady  Bell,  looking  round  as  if  she 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  22 7 

expected  to  see  him  concealed  behind  one  of  tlio  chairs. 
"He's  always  addressing  public  meetings,  isn't  he?" 

"Not  always,  Lady  Earlsley,"  said  Stephen,  from  the 
open  doorway. 

"Good  heavens !  Speak  of  the — angels,  and  you  hear  the 
rustle  of  their  wings!"  exclaimed  Lady  Bell,  not  at  all 
embarrassed.  "How  did  you  come  in,  Mr.  Davenant  ?" 

"By  the  door,  Lady  Earlsley,  which  was  open.  Mother, 
you  will  lose  all  your  plate  some  day." 

"And  what  public  meeting  have  you  come  from  now?" 
asked  Lady  Bell,  with  a  smile. 

"I  have  been  walking  in  the  park,"  said  Stephen,  "and 
am  at  your  ladyship's  service." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Lady  Bell,  quickly,  "for  I  want 
you — all  of  you  to  come  and  dine  with  me  tonight." 

"Tonight !"  echoed  Jack. 

"Tonight!  Why  not?  You  have  plenty  of  time  to 
dress.  Come,  it  will  be  charity — there's  an  argument  for 
you,  Mr.  Davenant — for  Mrs.  Fellowes  and  I  are  all  alone ; 
papa  has  gone  to  some  learned  society  meeting.  Come,  I'll 
go  home  at  once  and  tell  them  to  get  your  favorite  wines 
ready.  What  is  your  favorite,  Mr.  Newcombe?" 

Jack  laughed. 

"I'd  come  and  dine  with  you,  Lady  Bell,  if  you  gave  us 
ginger  beer,"  he  said. 

Lady  Bell  laughed,  but  she  looked  pleased. 

"Now,  that  is  what  I  call  a  really  good  compliment — for 
a  Savage,"  and  she  glanced  at  Jack  archly.  "We'll  say 
half-past  eight  tonight  to  give  you  time  to  finish  your 
chat.  Au  revoir''  and  waving  her  daintily-gloved  hand, 
she  flitted  from  the  room. 

"Would  he  dine  with  me  if  I  had  only  ginger  beer  to 
offer  him?"  she  asked  herself,  as  she  went  back  in  the 
brougham.  "Would  he  ?  He  looks  so  honest  and  so  true ! 
— so  incapable  of  a  mean,  unworthy  action !  I  wish  I  were 
as  poor — as  poor  as  Una.  How  quietly  she  sits.  She  has  just 
the  air  of  one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth — the  air  which 
I,  with  all  my  title  and  wealth,  .shall  never  have.  I  won- 
der who  she  is,  and  whether  Mr.  Stephen  thinks  her  as 
beautiful  as  I  do!  He  looked  at  her  as  he  went  in — well, 
just  as  I  would  that  some  one  else  would  look  at  me.  How 


228  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

handsome  he  is,  so  different  to  Stephen  Davenant.  Ah, 
me !  I  know  now  why  Brighton  was  so  hateful ;  if  Jack 
Newcomhe  had  been  there  I  should  npt  have  hungered  and 
pined  for  London  !  What  a  miserable,  infatuated  being  I 
am.  I  am  as  bad  as  that  foolish  maid  of  mine.  Yes,  just 
as  bad,  for  if  Jack  Newcombe  came  and  asked  me,  I  should 
run  away  with  him  as  she  did  with  her  young  man !" 

Still  thinking  of  him,  she  reached  home  and  went  up  to 
her  own  room,  where  Mrs.  Fellowes,  the  long-suffering, 
hastened  to  meet  her. 

"My  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  How  long  you 
have  been." 

"My  dear,  you  say  that  every  time  I  come  in.  What  is 
the  matter — another  maid  run  away  ?" 

"No,  but  a  maid  has  come,  at  least  a  young  person — I 
was  going  to  say  lady — who  wants  the  situation." 

"Well,  a  lady's  maid  ought  to  be  a  lady,"  said  Lady 
Bell,  languidly.  "Where  is  she?" 

"In  my  room,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes.  "She  came  with  a 
note  from  Lady  Challoner.  It  seems  the  poor  girl  has 
been  in  trouble — she  has  lost  her  father — and  not  caring 
to  go  for  a  governess " 

"For  which  I  don't  blame  her,"  said  Lady  Bell. 

"She  is  desirous  of  getting  an  engagement  as  a  com- 
panion or  lady's  maid." 

"A  companion's  worse  off  than  a  governess,  isn't  she?'* 
said  Lady  Bell,  naively. 

Mrs.  Fellowes  smiled. 

"Yes.    What  is  her  name  ?"  asked  Lady  Bell. 

"Well,  there's  the  point,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes.  "Her  name 
is  Laura  Treherne,  but  as  some  of  her  friends — she  hasn't 
many,  she  says — might  think  that  she  had  done  wrong  in 
taking  a  menial  situation  she  wishes  to  be  known  by  some 
other  name." 

"I  hate  mysteries  and  aliases,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "I 
don't  think  I  shall  engage  her.  She'll  be  too  proud  to  do 
my  hair  and  copy  all  my  dresses  in  common  material. 
Well,  I'll  see  her." 

"Fll  send  her  away  if  you  like/'  said  Mrs.  Fellowes: 
"but*!  think  you'll  like  her." 

"Do  you  ?    Then  I  know  exactly  what  she's  like  before  I 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEim-  WJ 

see  her  if  she  has  taken  your  fancy.  Some  prim  old  maid 
in  black  cotton  and  thick  shoes." 

Mrs.  Fellowes  smiled  and  rang  the  bell,  and  back'  ;i 
servant  to  ask  the  young  person  who  was  waiting  to  step 
that  way. 

Lady  Bell  began  taking  off  her  gloves  yawningly,  but 
stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  up  with  an  air  of  surprise 
as  the  door  opened  and  a  tall  girl,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
entered. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Lady  Bell  overmastered  her  surprise,  and  asking  the 
young  girl  to  sit  down,  looked  at  her  critically  as  she  did 
so. 

Yes,  the  girl  was  a  lady,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that. 
But  it  was  not  only  the  evidence  of  refinement  in  the  face 
and  the  manner  of  the  girl  that  struck  Lady  Bell;  there 
was  an  expression  in  the  dark  eyes  and  clear-cut  lips, 
slightly  compressed,  which  roused  her  interest  and  curi- 
osity. 

It  was  a  face  with  a  history. 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  at  Lady  Challoner's  note. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "that  Lady  Challoner  knows  you,  Miss 
Treherne." 

"She  knew  my  grandfather,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  "He 
is  dead." 

"Lately  ?"  said  Lady  Bell,  glancing  at  the  note. 

Laura  Treherne  bent  her  head. 

"Two  months  ago,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"And  have  you  no  friends  with  whom  you  could  go  and 
live?" 

"None  who  would  care  to  have  me,  or  to  whom  I  should 
wish  to  go." 

Lady  Bell  was  silent  for  a  moment — the  girl  interested 
her  more  each  minute. 

"Are  you  taking  a  wise  step  in  seeking  for  a  situation 
which  is  considered  menial?"  she  asked. 

Laura  Treherne  paused  for  a  moment. 

"I  do  not  think  it  degradation  to  serve  Lady  Earlsley," 
she  said. 


230  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

Lady  Bell  smiled,  not  ill  pleased. 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  would  not  accept  any  situa- 
tion ?" 

Laura  Treherne  inclined  her  head. 

"How  did  you  know  that  I  wanted  a  maid  ?" 

"I  heard  it  in  the  house  where  I  am  lodging/'  she  re- 
plied. 

"And  you  knew  me  ?" 

"Yes ;  I  had  heard  of  you,  my  lady." 

"Have  you  any  other  testimonials  besides  this  note  of 
Lady  Challoner's  ?" 

"None,  my  lady." 

Lady  Bell  hesitated. 

"It  is  quite  sufficient,"  she  said;  "but  I  am  afraid  you 
do  not  understand  the  duties  of  a  lady's  maid." 

"I  think  so,  my  lady.  What  I  do  not  know  now,  I  can 
soon  learn." 

"That's  true.  And  I  see  you  do  not  wish  your  real  name 
to  transpire?" 

"I  would  rather  that  it  did  not.  I  would  rather  be  known 
by  some  other  name,"  answered  Laura  Treherne. 

"Why?" 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  the  dark  face 
paled  slightly. 

"I  thought  Lady  Challoner  had  explained.  My 
friends " 

"You  do  not  care  for  your  friends  to  know  that  you  are 
in  a  situation?  You  think  their  pride  would  be  greater 
than  your  own?" 

"Exactly,  my  lady." 

"Well,  I'll  engage  you,"  she  said.  "When  can  you  come? 
I  have  no  maid  at  present." 

"Now,  at  once,  if  your  ladyship  wishes.  I  will  stay 
now,  and  send  for  my  luggage,  if  you  please." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "Come  to  my  room  in  half 
an  hour,  and  we  will  arrange  matters.  You  have  said 
nothing  about  salary." 

"That  I  leave  in  your  ladyship's  hands." 

"Like  the  ca'bmen,"  said  Lady  Bell,  laughing.  "Well, 
come  to  my  room  in  half  an  hour." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  231 

Laura  Treherne  bowed  and  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Fel- 
lowes  lifted  up  her  voice  in  remonstrance. 

"My  dear  Bell,  that  letter  may  be  a  forgery." 

"It  might  be,  but  it  isn't.  I  can  read  faces,  and  I  like 
that  young  lady's.  Yes,  she's  a  lady,  poor  girl.  Well,  she 
might  have  hit  upon  a  worse  mistress;  I  shan't  bang  her 
about  the  head  with  a  hair  brush  when  I'm  in  a  temper, 
as  Lady  Courtney  does  her  maid.  There,  spare  your  re- 
monstrances, my  dear.  The  girl's  engaged,  and  I  mean  to 
keep  her.  And  now  there  are  three  or  four  people  coming 
to  dinner,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davenant,  Jack — I  mean  Mr. 
Newcombe — and  that  strange  girl,  Una.  What  a  lovely 
creature  she  is !  Do  you  know  I  rather  think  she  will  be- 
come Mrs.  Stephen  Davenant/' 

"She  is  a  very  nice  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Fellowes.  "She 
ought  to  make  a  good  match." 

"Ay  de  me,"  said  Lady  Bell,  with  a  sigh.  "I'm  sick  of 
that  word.  Men  and  women  don't  'marry'  now,  they  make 
'good  matches/  My  dear,  I  hate  your  worldly  way  of 
looking  at  matrimony.  If  I  were  a  poor  girl,  I'd  marry 
the  man  of  my  heart,  if  he  hadn't  a  penny.  Ah,  and  if  he 
were  the  baddest  of  bad  lots." 

"Like  Jack  Newcombe,  for  instance,"  said  Mrs.  Fel- 
lowes, archly. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Bell,  turning  with  the  door  in  her 
hand ;  "like  Jack  Newcombe,"  and  she  ran  up  to  her  room. 

Punctual  to  the  minute,  Laura  Treherne  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  dressing-room.  Lady  Bell  was  seated  ^before 
the  glass,  surrounded  by  her  walking  clothes,  which,  as 
was  her  custom,  she  had  slipped  out  of  or  flung  carelessly 
aside. 

Without  a  word  Laura  picked  them  up  and  put  them 
in  the  wardrobe,  and  without  a  word  took  up  the  hair 
brushes.  Lady  Bell  watched  her  in  the  glass,  and  gave  her 
a  hint  now  and  then,  and  when  her  hair  was  dressed 
glanced  round  approvingly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  very  nice;  and  you  have  not 
hurt  me  once.  The  last  maid  used  to  pull  me  terribly.  I 
suppose  she  was  thinking  of  her  young  man.  By  the  way, 
are  you  engaged?" 

The  dark  face  flushed  fat  a  wment,  then  grew  pale. 


232  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"No,  my  lady." 

"I'm  glad  of  it.  Take  my  advice  and  don't  be.  That 
sounds  selfish,  doesn't  it.  Now  you  want  to  know  what  I 
am  going  to  wear.  I  don't  know  myself.  What  would  you 
choose?  Go  to  the  wardrobe." 

Laura  went  to  the  wardrobe,  and  came  back  after  a 
minute  or  two  with  a  dress  of  black  satin  and  lace  looped 
up  with  rosebuds  of  the  darkest  red.  It  was  one  newly 
arrived  from  Worth. 

Lady  Bell  nodded. 

"Yes,  that  just  suits  me.  Give  me  a  lady  for  good  taste  I 
And  now  choose  the  ornaments.  There  is  the  jewel-box." 

Laura  chose  the  set  of  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  Lady 
Bell  smiled  again. 

"I  shall  look  rather  Spanish.  Never  mind.  Let  us  try 
them." 

With  deft  and  gentle  hands  Laura  helped  her  to  dress, 
and  Lady  Bell  nodded  approval. 

"Am  I  ready?" 

Laura  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Will  your  ladyship  wear  the  pendant?" 

Lady  Bell  glanced  in  the  glass. 

"Ah,  I  see,  you  think  that  is  rather  too  much  against  the 
rosebuds.  You  are  right.  Take  it  off,  please.  Thanks. 
Put  the  key  of  the  jewel-box  in  your  pocket.  Stay !  there 
is  a  chain  for  you  to  wear  it  on ;"  and  she  took  out  a  small 
gold  chain.  "You  can  keep  that  as  your  own." 

Laura  Treherne  flushed,  and  she  inclined  her  head  grate- 
fully. 

Lady  Bell  was  relieved;  her  last  maid  used  to  over- 
whelm her  with  thanks. 

"And  now  I  will  go  down.  By  the  way,  will  you  please 
tell  Simcox— that's  the  butler— that  the  gentlemen  will 
want  Lafitte,  at  least,  Mr.  Newcombe  will.  I  don't  know 
what  Mr.  Stephen  Davenant  drinks.  What's  the  matter?" 
she  broke  off  to  inquire,  for  she  heard  Laura  stumble  and 
fall  against  the  wardrobe. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then,  calmly  enough, 
Laura  said: 

"My  foot  caught  in  your  ladyship's  dress,  I  think.** 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself?"'  asked  Lady  Bell,  kindly. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  233 

"You  have  gone  quite  pale!    Here,  take  some  of  this  sal- 
volatile." 

But  Laura  declined,  respectfully.  It  was  a  mere  nothing, 
and  she  would  be  more  careful  of  alarming  her  ladyship 
for  the  future. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  her  curiously.  The  quiet,  self-con- 
tained manner,  so  free  from  nervousness  or  embarrass- 
ment, interested  her. 

She  stopped  her  as  Laura  was  leaving  the  room. 

"We  haven't  fixed  upon  a  name  for  you  yet,"  she  said. 

"No,  my  lady;  any  name  will  do." 

"It  is  a  pity  to  change  yours — it  is  a  pretty  one." 

"Will  Mary  Burns  do,  my  lady?  It  was  my  mother's 
name." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lady  Bell;  "I" will  tell  Mrs.  Fellowes 
that  you  will  be  known  by  that." 

"That  girl  has  a  history,  I  know,"  she  thought,  as  she 
went  downstairs. 

Punctual  almost  to  the  minute,  Mrs.  Davenant's 
brougham  arrived. 

The  evenings  had  drawn  in,  and  a  lamp  was  burning 
in  the  hall;  and  a  email  fire  made  the  dining-room  com- 
fortable. 

Lady  Bell  welcomed  Una  most  affectionately. 

"Now  we  will  have  a  really  enjoyable  evening,"  she  said. 
"I  hate  dinner  parties,  and  if  I  had  my  way,  would  never 
give  nor  go  to  another  one.  If  it  were  only  a  little  colder, 
we'd  sit  round  the  fire  and  bake  chestnuts.  Have  you  ever 
done  that,  Wild  Bird?" 

"Often,"  said  Una,  with  a  quiet  smile,  and  something 
like  a  sigh,  as  she  thought  of  the  long  winter  evenings  in 
the  cot.  How  long  ago  they  seemed,  almost  unreal,  as  if 
they  had  never  happened. 

"Oh,  Una  is  very  accomplished,"  said  Jack;  "I  believe 
she  could  make  coffee  if  she  tried." 

Very  snug  and  comfortable  the  dining-room  looked. 
Lady  Bell  had  dispensed  with  one  of  the  footmen,  and  had 
evidently  determined  to  make  the  meal  as  homely  and  un- 
ceremonious as  possible. 

ver,  perhaps,  had  the  butler  seen  a  merrier  party. 
Stephen  was  genial  and  humorous ;  indeed  he  seemed 


234  OXLY  OXE  LOVE  ;  OK, 

to  oxort  himself  in  an  extraordinary  fashion.  Lady  Boll 
had  given  him  Una  to  take  in,  and  he  was  most  attentive 
and  entertaining — so  much  that  Jack,  who  was  sitting  op- 
posite, and  next  to  Lady  Bell,  felt  amused  and  interested 
at  the  change  which  seemed  to  have  come  over  him. 

Could  he  have  seen  the  workings  of  the  subtle  mind 
concealed  behind  the  smiling  exterior,  he  would  have  felt 
very  much  less  at  his  ease ;  for  even  now  Stephen  was  plot- 
ting how  best  he  could  mold  the  material  round  him  to 
serve  his  purpose,  and  while  the  laugh  was  lingering  on 
his  smooth  lips,  his  heart  was  burning  with  hate  and  jeal- 
ousy of  the  rival  who  sat  opposite. 

For  it  had  come  to  this,  that  he  desired  Una,  and  not 
only  for  the  wealth  of  which  he  had  robbed  her,  but  for 
herself.  As  deeply  as  it  was  possible  for  one  of  his  nature 
he  loved  the  innocent,  unsuspecting  girl  who  sat  beside 
him. 

Tonight,  as  he  looked  at  the  beautiful  face  and  marked 
each  fleeting  expression  that  flitted  like  sunshine  over  it : 
as  he  listened  to  the  musical  voice,  and  felt  the  touch  of 
her  dress  as  it  brushed  his  arm,  a  passionate  longing 
seized  and  mastered  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  risk  all 
of  which  he  was  wrongfully  possessed  to  win  her — ah,  and 
if  she  were,  indeed,  only  the  daughter  of  a  common  wood- 
man. 

"Curse  him !"  he  murmured  over  his  wine  glass,  as  his 
eyes  rested  on  Jack's  handsome  face.  "If  he  had  not 
crossed  my  path,  she  would  have  been  mine  ere  now;  no 
matter,  I  will  strike  him  out  of  it,  as  if  he  were  a  viper  in 
my  road/' 

Meanwhile,  quite  unconscious  of  Stephen's  generous 
sentiments,  Jack  went  on  with  his  dinner,  enjoying  it 
thoroughly,  and  as  happy  as  it  is  given  to  a  mortal  to  be. 

Presently  the  conversation  turned  upon  their  plans  for 
the  autumn. 

"What  are  we  all  going  to  do  ?"  said  Lady  Bell.  "You,  I 
suppose,  Mr.  Davenant,  will  go  down  to  your  place  in 
Wealdshire— what  is  it  called  ?" 

"Hurst  Leigh,"  said  Stephen,  quietly.  "Yes,  I  must  go 
down  there,  I  ought  to  have  been  there  before  now,  but  I 
find  so  many  attractions  in  town,"  and  he  smiled  at  Una. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIK?  235 

"And  you,  my  dear:"'  said  Lady  Bell  to  Mrs.  Davenant.' 

"My  mother  will  go  down  with  me/'  said  Stephen. 

Mrs.  Davenant  glanced  at  him  nervously. 

"And  that  means  Miss  Wild  Bird,  too,  I  suppose?"  re- 
marked Lady  Bell. 

"If  Miss  Una  will  honor  us,"  said  Stephen,  with  an  in- 
clination of  the  head  to  Una.  "Yes,  we  shall  make  quite 
a  family  party.  You  will  join  us,  of  course,  Jack  ?" 

Jack,  who  had  looked  up  rather  grim  at  the  foregoing, 
bit  his  lip. 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"Surely  you  will  not  let  the  poachers  have  all  the  birds 
this  year,  Jack!"  said  Stephen,  brightly.  "Besides  my 
mother  will  be  quite  lost  without  you." 

"Do  come,  Jack,"  whispered  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"I'll  see,"  said  Jack,  grimly,  and  Una  looked  down  un- 
easily ;  she  understood  his  reluctance  to  go  to  the  old  place. 

"Oh,  we  will  take  no  refusal,"  said  Stephen,  buoyantly. 
"And  what  are  your  plans,  Lady  Bell  ?" 

Lady  Bell  looked  up  with  rather  a  start  and  a  flush. 

"I — I — don't  quite  know,"  she  said.  "I  had  been  think- 
ing of  going  to  a  small  place  we  have  at  Earl's  Court." 

"Earl's  Court!"  exclaimed  Jack.  "Why,  that  is  only 
thirteen  miles  or  so  from  the  Hurst." 

"Is  it?"  said  Lady  Bell.  "I  didn't  know.  I  haven't 
seen  it.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  I  haven't  made  a  round 
of  inspection  of  the  property  yet.  My  stewards  are  al- 
ways bothering  me  to  do  so,  but  I  don't  seem  to  have 
time." 

"A  sovereign  cannot  be  expected  to  visit  the  whole  of 
her  kingdom,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  smile. 

Lady  Bell  sighed. 

"I  often  wish  the  old  earl  had  left  me  five  hundred  a 
year  and  a  cottage  somewhere,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I 
should  have  been  a  happier  woman.  Oh,  here  is  the  claret. 
Give  Mr.  Newcombe  the  Lafitte,  Simcox.  *  Mr.  Dave- 
nant  " 

"I  always  follow  Jack's  suit,"  said  Stephen,  rising  to 
open  the  door  for  the  ladies.  "He  is  an  infallible  guide  in 
such  matters." 

"Fancy  a  woman  lamenting  the  extent  of  her  wealth," 


236  OJU'LT  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

he  said,  with  something  like  a  sneer,  as  he  went  back  to 
the  table.  "If  any  girl  ought  to  be  happy  that  girl  ought 
to  be.  What  a  chance  for  some  young  fellow !  My  dear 
Jack,  if  I  had  been  in  your  place " 

Jack  looked  up  with  a  tinge  of  red  in  his  face. 

"What  nonsense.  Lady  Bell  knows  better  than  to  be 
caught  by  such  chaff  as  I  am.  Besides,  I  am  more  than 
content.  I  wouldn't  exchange  Una  for  a  Duchess,  with 
the  riches  of  Peru  in  her  pockets.  What  about  the  com- 
missionership,  or  whatever  it  is,  Stephen?" 

"All  in  good  time,  my  dear  Jack.  Those  sort  of  things 
aren't  done  in  a  moment;  the  matter  is  in  hand,  and  we 
shall  get  it,  be  sure.  Meanwhile,  if  you  want  any 
money " 

"Thanks,  no,"  said  Jack,  easily. 

He  had  only  that  morning  negotiated  a  bill  with  Mr. 
Moss  for  another  hundred  pounds. 

Stephen  smiled  evilly  behind  his  pocket  handkerchief. 
He  held  that  bill  in  his  pocketbook  at  that  moment,  in 
company  with  all  Jack's  previous  ones. 

CHAPTEE  XXX. 

The  two  men  sat  beside  the  fire  almost  in  silence.  Jack 
was  trying  to  get  over  his  reluctance  to  go  to  the  Hurst, 
and  wondering  what  would  become  of  him  if  he  did  not. 
and  Una  left  him  all  alone  in  town;  and  Stephen  was 
wondering  whether  it  was  time  to  strike  the  blow  he  medi- 
tated. 

Very  soon  Jack  jumped  up. 

"If  you've  had  enough  wine,  let  us  join  the  ladies,"  he 
said,  and  went  toward  the  door. 

Stephen  followed  him,  but  turned  back  to. fetch  his 
pocket  handkerchief. 

Lying  beside  it,  on  the  table',  was  a  rose  which  had  fallen 
from  the  bosom  of  Una's  dress.  He  took  it  up,  and  looked 
at  it  with  that  look  which  a  man  bestows  on  some  trifle 
which  has  been  worn  by  the  woman  he  loves,  and  then, 
as  if  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  kiss- 
ing it  passionately,  and  put  it  carefully  in  his  bosom.  As 
he  did  so,  he  raised  his  eves  to  the  glass,  which  reflected 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  23T 

one  side  of  the  room,  and  saw  the  slight  figure  of  a  woman 
standing  in  the  open  door  and  watching  him. 

The  light  from  the  carefully  shaded  lamp  was  too  dim 
to  allow  him  to  see  the  face  distinctly,  hut  something  in 
the  figure  caused  him  to  feel  a  sudden  chill. 

He  turned  sharply  and  walked  to  the  door;  but  the  hall 
was  empty  and  there  was  no  sound  of  retreating  footsteps. 

"Some  servant  maid  waiting  to  come  in  to  clear  the  ta- 
ble/' he  muttered. 

But  he  returned  to  the  dining-room,  and  drank  off  a 
glass  of  liquor  before  going  to  the  drawing-room,  from 
which  ripples  of  Jack's  frank  laughter  were  floating  in  the 
hall. 

Lady  Bell  was  seated  at  the  piano,  playing  and  singing 
in  her  light-hearted,  careless  fashion ;  Jack  and  Una  were 
seated  in  a  dimly-lit  corner,  talking  in  an  undertone. 

Stephen  went  up  to  the  piano  and  stood  apparently  lis- 
tening intently,  but  in  reality  watching  the  other  two  un- 
der his  lowered  lids. 

The  presence  of  the  rose  in  his  bosom  seemed  to  height- 
en the  passion  which  burned  in  his  heart ;  and  the  sight  of 
Jack  bending  over  Una,  and  of  her  rapt,  up-turned  face 
as  she  looked  up,  drinking  in  his  lightest  word  as  if  it 
were  gospel,  maddened  him. 

It  was  with  a  start  that  he  became  conscious  that  Lady 
Bell  had  ceased  playing,  and  that  she,  like  him,  was  watch- 
ing the  lovers. 

"Miss  Una  and  Mr.  Newcombe  seem  very  good  friends," 
she  said,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"Do  they  not  ?"  said  Stephen,  in  his  softest  voice.  "Too 
good." 

Lady  Bell  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Stephen  looked  down  at  her  gravely. 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret,  Lady  Bell?'*  he  said,  hesitat- 
ingly- 

"Sometimes/'  she  said.    "What  is  it?" 

Stephen  glanced  across  at  Jack  and  Una. 

"I'm  rather  anxious  about  our  young  friends/'  he  said, 
his  voice  dropped  still  lower,  his  head  bent  forward  with 


238  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

such  an  insidious  smile  that  Lady  Bell  could  not,  for  the 
life  of  her,  help  thinking  of  a  serpent. 

"Anxious!"  she  echoed,  her  heart  beating.     "As  how?" 

"Can  you  not  guess  ?' '  he  said,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"You — you  mean  that  they  may  fall  in  love  with  each 
other.  Well,  they  are  not  badly  matched,"  said  Lady  Bell, 
bravely,  though  her  heart  was  aching. 

"Not  badly,  in  one  sense,"  said  Stephen,  after  a  pause; 
"but  as  badly  as  two  persons  could  be  in  all  others.  They 
are  a  match  as  regards  their  means.  They  are  both  penni- 
less." 

Lady  Bell  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"Is — is  M>.  Newcombe  so  badly  off?  I  thought — that 
is,  I  fancied  he  had  a  wealthy  uncle "  She  paused. 

"You  m??.n  Mr.  Ealph  Davenant,"  said  Stephen,  calm- 
ly, and  with  an  air  of  sadness.  "I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
he  left  everything  which  he  possessed  to  a  less  worthy 
person— ^o  me." 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"To  me,"  he  repeated,  "and  poor  Jack  was — well,  dis- 
inherited, and  left  penniless.  It  is  of  him  I  think  when 
I  say  that  I  am  anxious  about  them ;  naturally,  I  think  of 
him.  Miss  Eolfe  is  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  and  has  been 
used  to  a  straitened  life;  but  poor  Jack  does  not  know 
whp-t  poverty  means,  and  in  his  ignorance  may  drift  into 
an  entanglement  which  may  embitter  her  life.  No  man  in 
the  world  is  less  fitted  for  love  in  a  cottage,  and  nothing 
to  pay  the  rent,  than  Jack  Newcombe.  You,  who  have 
soen  something  of  him,  must  have  remarked  his  easy- 
going, careless  nature,  his  utter  ignorance  of  the  value  of 
money,  his  unsuitableness  for  a  life  of  poverty  and  priva- 
tion." ' 

Lady  Bell's  heart  beat  fast. 

"But — but — "  she  said,  "you  have  plenty." 

"Of  which  Jack  will  not  take  one  penny.  You  see  he  is 
as  proud  as  he  is  poor." 

"I  like  him  for  that,"  murmured  Lady  Bell. 

"Yes,  so  do  I ;  though  it  pains  and  grieves  me.  If  Jack 
would  permit  me  to  help  him,  Lady  Bell,  he  might  marry 
Una  Rolfe  tomorrow;  but  as  it  is,  I  fear,  I  am  anxious. 
Another  man  would  be  wiser,  but  Jack  has  no  idea  of  pru- 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  >  239 

(fence,  and  v/ould  plunge  head  first  into  all  the  misery  of 
such  a  union  without  a  thought  of  the  morrow." 

"And  you — you  think  he  loves  her,"  murmured  Lady 
Bell ;  and  she  waited  for  an  answer  as  a  man  on  his  trial 
might  wait  for  the  verdict  of  the  jury. 

Stephen  smiled.  He  could  read  Lady  Bell's  heart  as  if 
it  were  an  open  book. 

"Loves  her !  No,  certainly  not — not  yet.  He  is  amused 
and  entertained,  but  love  has  not  come  yet." 

"And  she?"  asked  Lady  Bell,  anxiously,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  Una's  face. 

Stephen  smiled  again. 

"No,  not  yet.  She  is  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  I  have  taken  some  trouble  to  arrive  at  the  truth, 
and  I  am  sure  of  what  I  say.  It  is  well  for  her  that  she  is 
not,  for  anything  like  a  serious  engagement  would  be  sim- 
ply madness.  Poor  Jack !  His  future  lies  so  plainly  be- 
fore him,  and  if  he  would  follow  it,  the  rest  of  his  life 
might  be  happiness  itself." 

"You  mean  that  he  should  marry  for  money,"  said  Lady 
Bell,  coldly. 

"No,  not  for  money  alone,"  murmured  Stephen.  "Jack 
is  too  high-minded  to  be  guilty  of  such  meanness;  but  is 
it  not  possible  to  marry  for  love  and  money,  too,  Lady 
Bell?" 

Lady  Bell  turned  her  head  aside ;  her  heart  beating  fast. 
The  voice  of  the  tempter  sounded  like  music  in  her  ear. 
Why  should  not  he  marry  for  love  as  well  as  money  ?  She 
had  both.  She  loved  him  passionately,  and  she  would  pour 
her  money  at  his  feet  to  dp  as  he  liked  with ;  to  squander 
and  make  ducks  and  drakes  of,  if  he  would  but  give  her  a 
little  love  in  return. 

As  she  looked  across  the  room  at  him,  that  awful, 
wistful  longing  which  only  a  woman  who  loves  with  all 
her  heart  can  feel,  took  possession  of  her  and  mastered 
her. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this  ?"  she  asked,  sharply  turning 
her  face,  pale  and  working. 

"Because,"  murmured  Stephen,  "because  I  have  Jack's 
interest  so  much  at  heart  that  I  am  bold  enough  to  ask 
for  aid  where  I  know  it  can  be  of  avail." 


240  ON L Y  ON  E  LOVE ;  OE, 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  ask  me  ?"  she  s*\id,  tremulousl} 
"What  can  I  do  ?" 

"Much,  everything,"  he  whispered,  his  head  hent  low, 
almost  to  her  ear.  "Ask  yourself,  dear  Lady  Bell,  and  you 
will  understand  me.  Let  me  be  plain  and  straightfor- 
ward, even  at  the  risk  of  offending  you.  There  was  a  time, 
not  many  months  ago,  when  I  and  his  best  friends  thought 
Jack  had  made  a  choice  at  once  happy  and  wise." 

Lady  Bell  rose  and  moved  to  and  fro,  and  then  sank 
down  again  trembling  with  agitation. 

"You  mean  that — that  he  was  falling  in  love  with  me  ?" 

Stephen  inclined  his  head  with  lowered  eyes. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said.  "You  cannot  fail  to  have  seen 
what  all  observed."  And  he  went  on  quickly — "And  but 
for  this  fancy — this  passing  fancy — all  would  have  been 
well.  Lady  Bell,  I  am  speaking  more  openly  than  I  ever 
have  spoken  to  woman  before.  I  am  risking  offending  you, 
but  I  do  so  from  the  affection  which  I  bear  my  cousin. 
Lady  Bell,  I  implore  you  to  help  me  in  saving  him  from  a 
step  which  will  plunge  him  into  life-long  misery.  He  is 
totally  unfitted  to  battle  with  the  world;  married  wisely 
and  well,  he  would  be  a  happy  and  contented  man;  mar- 
ried unwisely  and  badly,  no  one  can  picture  the  future." 

Lady  Bell  rose,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  gleaming  under 
the  strain  which  she  was  enduring. 

"Don't  say  any  more,"  she  said;  "I — I  cannot  bear  it. 
You  have  guessed  my  secret;  I  can  feel  that.  Yes,  I  would 
save  him  if  I  could,  and  if  you  are  sure  that — that  there  is 
no  engagement " 

"There  is  none,"  said  Stephen,  lying  smoothly.  "There 
can  be  none ;  the  idea  is  preposterous." 

Lady  Bell  moved  away  as  he  spoke,  and  turned  over 
some  book  on  the  table  to  conceal  her  agitation,  and  Ste- 
phen, humming  a  popular  hymn  tune,  crossed  the  room 
and  looked  down  at  Jack  and  Una  with  a  benedictory 
smile,  as  if  he  was  blessing  them. 

"Are  you  aware  of  the  time,  and  that  Lady  Bell's  hall 
porter  is  uttering  maledictions  for  our  tardiness?"  he  said, 
playfully. 

Jack  looked  at  his  watch. 


WHO  WAS  Tin-;  nuiu?  2 

"By  Jove  I    No  idea  it  was  so  late.    Are  you  ready,  M 
Davenant  ?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  woke  from  a  sleep,  and  she  and  Una  wu 
upstairs. 

"I  see  you  have  a  new  maid/'  she  said,  when  they  came 
down  again.  "What  a  superior-looking  young  girl." 

"Is  she  not?"  said  Lady  Bell,  absently.  "She  is  more 
than  superior,  she  is  interesting.  She  has  a  history." 

Stephen,  standing  by,  folding  and  unfolding  his  opera 
hat,  smiled. 

"Very  interesting;  but  take  care,  Lady  Bell;  I  am  al- 
ways suspicious  of  interesting  people  with  a  history." 

As  he  spoke,  a  pale,  dark  face  looked  down  upon  him 
from  the  upper  landing  for  a  moment,  then  disappeared. 

"You  will  come  with  us,  Stephen  ?"  said  Mrs.  Davenant, 
nervously. 

"No,  thanks.  I  should  like  the  walk.  Good-night,"  and 
he  kissed  her  dutifully,  and  shook  hands  with  Jack  and 
Lady  Bell. 

"Going  to  walk?"  cried  Mrs.  Davenant.  "It  is  very 
chilly,  and  you've  only  that  thin  overcoat." 

"I've  a  scarf  somewhere — where  is  it?"  said  Stephen. 

Una  stooped,  and  picked  up  a  white  scarf. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  laughing,  and  all  innocently  she 
threw  it  round  his  neck. 

"Will  you  tie  it,  please  ?"  said  Stephen,  in  an  ordinary 
tone,  and  Una,  laughing  still,  tied  it. 

Stephen  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  cast  down;  he  was 
afraid  to  raise  them  lest  the  passion  blazing  in  them  should 
be  read  by  all  there. 

"Thanks.  I  cannot  catch  cold  now,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

He  put  them  into  the  brougham,  and  under  the  pretext 
of  arranging  her  shawl,  touched  her  hand  once  again ;  then 
he  stood  in  the  chilly  street  and  watched  the  brougham  till 
it  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

Then  he  turned  and  walked  homeward. 

"One  step  in  the  right  direction,"  he  muttered.  "Take 
care,  Master  Jack;  I  shall  outwit  you  yet." 

As  he  ascended  the  stairs  of  his  chambers,  Slununcrs 
came  out  to  meet  him. 


243  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OE, 

"There  is  a — person  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  Stephen,"  he 
said. 

Stephen  stopped,  and  his  hand  closed  on  the  balustrade; 
his  thoughts  flew  to  Laura  Treherne. 

" A — woman,  Shimmers  ?" 

"No,  sir,  a  man/'  said  Slummers. 

"Very  good,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  breath  of  relief. 
"Who  is  it — do  you  know?" 

Slummers  shook  his  head. 

"A  rough  sort  of  man,  sir ;  says  he  has  come  on  business. 
He  has  been  waiting  for  hours." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Stephen,  aloud  and  blandly,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  visitor.  "I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  anyone 
waiting.  But  it  is  rather  late " 

He  entered  the  room  as  he  spoke,  and  started  slightly, 
for  standing  in  the  center  of  the  apartment  was  Gideon 
Eolfe. 

Notwithstanding  the  start  Stephen  came  forward  with 
outstretched  hand  and  a  ready  smile  of  welcome. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Eolfe,  I  am  indeed  sorry  that  you  should 
have  been  kept  so  long.  If  I  had  only  known  that  you 
were  coming " 

Gideon  Eolfe  waived  all  further  compliment  aside  with 
a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  wished  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "Time  is  no  object  to 
me." 

Stephen  shut  the  door  carefully  and  stood  in  a  listening 
attitude.  He  knew  it  was  of  no  use  to  ask  his  visitor  to  sit 
down. 

"You  have  come  to  inquire  about  your  daughter  ?" 

"No,  I  ^ have  not,"  said  Gideon  Eolfe,  calmly.  "I  know 
that  she  is  well — I  see  her  daily.  I  came  to  remind  you 
of  our  contract — I  came  to  remind  you  of  your  promise 
that  no  harm  should  come  near  her." 

Stephen  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"And  I  trust  no  harm  has  come  near  her,  my  dear  Mr. 
Eolfe." 

"But  I  say  that  it  has,"  said  Gideon  Eolfe,  coldly.  "I 
have  watched  her  daily  and  I  know." 

"To  what  harm  do  you  allude  ?"  asked  Stephen,  bravely. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  243 

"Do  you  deny  that  the  young  man  Jack  Newcombe  is 
near  her?" 

"Oh,"  said  Stephen,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

Then  he  commenced  untying  the  scarf,  his  acute  brain 
hard  at  work. 

Here  was  an  instrument  ready  to  his  hand,  if  he  chose 
to  use  it  properly. 

"Oh,  I  understand.  No,  I  do  not  deny  it;  I  wish  that 
I  could  do  so,  for  your  sake  and  for  Una's/'  he  said 
gravely. 

"Speak  plainly,"  said  Gideon  Eolfe,  hoarsely. 

"I  will,"  said  Stephen.  "Plainly  then,  Mr.  Newcombe 
has  chosen  to  fall  in  love  with — your  daughter !  That  ac- 
counts for  his  constant  attendance  upon  her." 

Gideon  Rolfe's  face  worked. 

"I  will  take  her  back,"  he  said,  grimly. 

Stephen  smiled. 

"Softly,  softly.  There  are  two  to  that  bargain,  my  dear 
Mr.  Rolfe.  For  Miss  Una  to  go  back  to  a  state  of  savagery 
in  Warden  Forest  is  impossible.  You,  who  have  seen  her 
in  her  new  surroundings,  and  the  change  they  have 
wrought  in  her,  must  admit  that." 

Gideon  Rolfe  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"I  know  that  she  is  changed,"  he  said.  "She  is  like  a 
great  lady  now.  I  see  her  dressed  in  rich  silks  and  satins, 
and  coming  and  going  in  carriages,  with  servants  to  wait 
upon  her,  and  I  know  that  she  is  changed,  and  that  she  has 
forgotten  the  friends  of  her  childhood — forgotten  those 
who  were  father  and  mother  to  her " 

"You  wrong  Miss  Una,"  said  Stephen,  smoothly.    "Not 
a  day  passes  but  she  inquires  for  you  and  deplores  your 
'  absence " 

"But,"  went  on  Gideon,  as  if  he  had  not  been  inter- 
rupted, "I  have  not  forgotten  her,  nor  my  promise  to  her 
mother.  In  a  weak  moment,  moved  by  your  threats  more 
than  your  persuasions,  I  consented  to  part  with  her,  but  I 
would  rather  she  were  dead  than  that  should  happen — 
which  you  say  will  happen." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Stephen,  blandly,  and  with  an  evil 
smile.  "I  said  that  Mr.  Newcombe  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her;  I  did  not  say  that  he  would  marry  her.  /  would 


244  OXLY  OXK  LOVE;  OE, 

rather  she  were  dead  than  that  should  happen,"  and  he 
turned  his  face  for  one  moment  to  the  light. 

It  was  pale  even  to  the  lips,  the  eyes  gleaming  with  res- 
olute purpose. 

Gideon  Eolfe  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  in  a.  troubled  voice. 

"Let  me  make  it  clear  to  you,"  said  Stephen.  "Against 
my  will  and  wish  these  two  have  met  and  become  ac- 
quainted. Against  my  will  and  wish  that  acquaintance 
has  ripened  into'' — he  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  the  word 
hurt  him — "into  love,  or  what  they  mistake  for  love. 
Thus  far  it  has  gone,  but  it  must  go  no  further.  I  am  at 
one  with  you  there.  You  and  I  must  prevent  it.  You 
cannot  do  it  alone,  you  know.  You  have  no  control  over 
Miss  Una;  you  who  are  not  her  father  and  in  no  way  re- 
lated to  her." 

Gideon  Eolfe  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"You  see,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  haggard  smile,  "alone 
you  are  helpless.  Be  sure  of  that.  If  you  move  in  the 
matter  without  me,  I  will  declare  the  secret  of  her  birth. 
Stop  !  be  calm !  But  you  and  I  can  put  an  end  to  this  en- 
gagement." 

"They  are  engaged  ?"  muttered  Gideon  Eolfe. 

Stephen  smiled  contemptuously. 

"My  good  friend,  this  matter  has  passed  beyond  your 
strength.  Leave  it  to  me.  Yes,  they  are  engaged;  the  af- 
fair has  gone  so  far,  but  it  must  go  no  further.  While 
you  have  been  lurking  outside  area  gates  and  behind  car- 
riages I  have  been  at  work,  and  I  will  stop  it.  I  am  not 
too  proud  to  accept  your  aid,  however.  Wlien  the  time 
comes  I  will  ask  your  aid.  Give  me  an  address  to  which 
to  write  to  you." 

Gideon  Eolfe,  with  a  suspicious  air,  drew  a  piece  of 
paper  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  an  address. 

"This  will  find  you?"  said  Stephen.  "Good.  When  the 
time  comes  I  will  send  for  you;  meanwhile" — and  he 
smiled — "you  can  go  on  haunting  area  gates  and  watching 
carriages,  but  be  sure  of  one  thing,  that  this  marriage 
shall  never  take  place." 

Gideon  Bolfe  watched  the  pale  face  grimly. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIIl?  -j  1,:, 

"I  must  know  more,"  he  said.  "How  will  you  put  an 
end  to  this  ?" 

Stephen  smiled.    It  was  not  a  pleasant  smile. 

"You  want  to  see  the  modus  operandi?  How  the  con- 
jurer is  going  to  perform  the  wonderful  feat?  Well,  it 
is  very  simple.  My  friend  and  somewhat  cousin,  for  all  his 
romance,  will  not  care  to  marry  a  girl  whose  name  is 
stained  with  shame.  If  I  know  my  dear  Jack,  he  will  not 
care  to  make  an  illegitimate  child  of  Gideon  Eolfe,  the 
woodman,  Mrs.  Newcombe." 

Gideon  Eolfe  started. 

"You  will  tell  Jiim  ?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen;  "I  shall  tell  him  the  truth,  of 
course  concealing  the  proper  names,  and  you  must  be  here 
to  confirm  my  statement.  That  is  all  you  have  to  do. 
Mind !  not  a  word  of  my  uncle's  connection  with  the  mat- 
ter, or  all  is  lost.  You  understand  ?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Gideon,  hoarsely.  "I  care  not 
by  what  means  so  that  the  marriage  is  prevented." 

"Nor  I"  said  Stephen,  coolly;  "and  now  we  are  agreed 
on  that  point.  When  I  want  you  I  will  write  to  you.  Until 
then — will  you  take  any  refreshment?" 

Gideon  Eolfe  waved  his  hand  by  way  of  negative,  and 
Stephen  rang  the  bell.  "Show  this  gentleman  out,  Sham- 
mers. Mind  the  lower  stairs,  the  gas  has  been  put  out. 
Good-night,  good-night." 

CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

It  was  settled  that  Mrs.  Davenant,  Una  and  Stephen 
should  go  to  the  Hurst  in  a  week's  time.  Jack  had  defi- 
nitely declined  to  go  to  the  Hurst.  He  felt  that  he  would 
rather  bear  the  absence  of  Una  for  a  week  or  two  than  go 
to  the  old  house,  haunted  as  it  was,  for  him,  with  so  many 
memories ;  but  lo  and  behold,  a  few  days  after  the  dinner 
party,  had  come  a  note  from  Lady  Bell's  father,  asking 
him  to  visit  Earl's  Court. 

Of  course,  Jack  accepted  gladly  enough,  without  a 
thought  of  Lady  Bell,  and  only  remembering  that  a  good 
nag  would  take  him  from  Earl's  Court  to  Hurst  in  an  hour 
and  a  half,  or  less. 


2-16  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

The  week  passed  rapidly,  and  with  something  like  rest- 
lessness Lady  Bell  organized  all  kinds  of  outings  and  ex- 
peditions, in  all  of  which  Jack's  services  were  found  to  be 
indispensable. 

He  could  not  exactly  tell  how  it  happened;  but  he 
seemed  to  spend  almost  as  much  time  with  Lady  Bell  as 
with  Una.  Xow  it  was  to  go  and  try  a  horse  which  Lady 
Bell  wanted  to  buy ;  then  to  select  some  dogs  to  take  down 
to  Earl's  Court ;  and,  again,  to  buy  and  send  down  pony- 
carriages  and  dog-carts. 

There  was  always  something  to  take  him  to  Park  Lane, 
and  though  Jack  felt  inclined  to  kick  at  these  demands 
upon  his  time,  which  would  otherwise  have  been  spent  near 
Una,  he  could  not  see  his  way  to  refuse.  Then  he  was 
fond  of  buying  horses,  and  dogs,  and  carriages,  and  used  to 
hold  a  levee  at  Spider  Court  of  disreputable-looking  men 
in  fustian  corduroys,  much  to  Leonard  Dagle's  disgust. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Jack,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  become 
Lady  Bell's  grand  vizier.  Do  you  choose  her  dress  for 
her?" 

"Chaff  away,  old  man,"  said  Jack.  "It  was  only  the 
other  day  that  you  were  badgering  me  with  being  cool  to 
her." 

"Yes,  with  a  purpose,"  said  Leonard ;  "but  that  purpose 
has  disappeared.  Have  you  been  to  the  Square  yet  this 
morning  ?" 

"No;  I'm  going  now.  No,  I  can't,  confound  it!  I 
promised  to  see  to  the  harness  for  the  pair  of  ponies  Lady 
Bell  bought." 

Leonard  smiled  rather  grimly. 

"How  Miss  Una  must  love  Lady  Bell,"  he  said,  iron- 
ically. 

"So  she  does,"  said  Jack,  sharply.  "Now  don't  pretend 
to  be  cynical,  Len.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  would 
spend  every  hour  of  my  life  by  Una's  side  if  I  could ;  but 
what  can  I  do?" 

"All  right !"  said  Len,  and  he  fell  to  work  again. 

_  Strangely  enough  now,  that  Jack  was  so  much  occupied 
with  Lady  Bell's  affairs,  Stephen  happened  to  find  more 
leisure  to  visit  his  mother,  and  very  often  he  accompanied 
her  and  Una  to  some  concert  or  picture-gallery  to  which 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  247 

Jack  was  prevented  from  going.  Stephen  seemed,  in  addi- 
tion, quite  changed,  and  had  become  quite  the  man  of 
pleasure  in  contrast  to  his  former  habits. 

He  rarely  appeared  at  the  Square  without  a  nosegay  or  a 
new  novel;  he  took  the  greatest  interest  in  any  subject 
which  interested  Una,  and  was  as  attentive  to  her  as  if  he 
had  been  the  most  devoted  of  lovers.  Now  tkat  Jack  was 
so  much  absent,  it  was  he  who  sat  opposite  her  in  the  little 
brougham,  who  leaned  over  her  chair  at  the  theater,  or  rode 
beside  her  in  the  Row. 

At  first  Una  felt  rather  constrained  by  his  constant  at- 
tendance; she  had  been  so  used  to  have  Jack  at  her  side 
that  she  felt  embarrassed  with  Stephen;  but  Stephen, 
whose  tact  was  second  only  to  his  cunning,  soon  put  her  at 
her  ease.  She  found  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  talk  to 
him,  that  she  might  sit  by  his  side  or  ride  with  him  for 
an  hour  without  uttering  a  word,  and  was  quite  free  to 
think  of  Jack  while  Stephen  chatted  on  in  his  smooth,  in- 
sinuating voice. 

And  so  the  very  effect  Stephen  desired  to  produce  came 
about ;  she  got  accustomed  to  have  him  near  her,  and  got  to 
feel'  at  her  ease  in  his  presence.  But  how  long  the  morn- 
ings seemed !  and  how  she  longed  for  Jack  and  wondered 
what  he  was  doing!  If  anyone  had  openly  told  her  she 
was  jealous  of  Lady  Bell,  she  would  have  repudiated  the 
idea  with  scorn  too  deep  for  anything  but  a  smile;  and 
yet — and  yet — that  bright,  happy  look  which  Lady  Bell 
had  so  much  admired,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  near- 
ly disappeared,  reviving  only  when  Jack  hurried  in  to 
spend  a  few  hours  with  her,  and  then  hurried  off  to  keep 
some  engagement  with  Lady  Bell  or  on  Lady  Bell's  af- 
fairs. 

But  never  by  word  or  look  did  Una  show  that  his  ab- 
sence pained  her;  instead,  she  was  always  the  first  to  re- 
mind him  of  his  engagements  and  to  bid  him  depart. 

At  last  the  day  arrived  for  her  departure  to  Hurst.  Lady 
Bell  did  not  go  down  to  Earl's  Court  till  three  days  later, 
and  Jack,  of  course,  had  to  remain  in  town  for  a  day  or 
two  after  that. 

"It  is  the  first  time  we  have  been  parted  for  twenty-four 
hours  since  that  happy  day  I  learned  you  loved  me,  my  dar- 


248  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

ling!"  he  whispered,  a?  he  held  Una  in  his  arms;  "I  al- 
most wish  that  I  had  accepted  Stephen's  invitation.  But 
—but  I  could  not  sleep  under  the  old  roof — by  Heaven,  I 
could  not !  You  cannot  understand " 

"But  I  do,"  murmured  Una;  "and  I  am  glad  you  are  not 
coming.  If " 

And  she  paused. 

"Well,  darling?"  asked  Jack,  kissing  her. 

"If  you  had  said  half  a  word,  I  would  not  have  gone." 

"Why  not?"'  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh.  "Yes,  I  am  glad 
you  are  going.  You  will  see  the  old  house  in  which  I  was 
so  happy  as  a  boy — which  I  once  thought  would  have  been 
mine.'' 

"Dear  Jack!"  she  murmured;  and  her  hand  smoothed 
the  hair  from  his  forehead  caressingly  and  comfortingly. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  said  Jack;  "it  is  better  as  it  is. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  had  the  Hurst,  and  have  lost  you ; 
and  I  would  rather  lose  the  whole  earth  than  you,  my  dar- 
ling !  Besides,  Stephen  has  turned  out  a  better  fellow  than 
I  thought  him,  and  deserves  all  he  has  got,  and  will  make 
a  better  use  of  it  than  I  should.  No,  I  am  content — I  have 
got  the  greatest  treasure  on  earth !" 

And  he  pressed  her  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  her  again 
and  again  until,  from  very  shame,  she  slid  from  his  grasp. 

Stephen  had  engaged  a  first-class  carriage,  had  even 
taken  the  precaution  to  order  foot-warmers,  though  the 
weather  was  not  yet  winterish,  and  if  he  had  been  the 
personal  attendant  on  a  sovereign,  and  that  sovereign  had 
been  Una,  he  could  not  have  been  more  anxious  for  her 
comfort.  He  was  so  thoughtful  and  considerate  that  there 
was  nothing  left  for  Jack  to  do  but  go  down  to  the  station 
and  see  them  off. 

"Four  days  only,  my  darling,"  he  whispered,  as  the 
train  was  starting ;  "they  will  seem  years  to  me." 

And  he  clung  to  her  hand  to  the  last  moment,  much  to 
the  disgust  of  the  guard  and  porters,  who  expected  to  see 
him  dragged  under  the  train.  Then  he  went  back  to 
Spider  Court,  feeling  cold,  chilly  and  miserable,  as  if  the 
sun  had  been  put  out. 

'Len,  I  wish  I  had  gone!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  opened 
the  door. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  -210 

But  there  was  no  Len  to  hear  him — the  room  \\a- 
empty. 

"Great  Heaven !  has  everyone  disappeared  ?"  lie  ex- 
claimed, irritably,  and  flung  himself  out  of  the  house  and 
into  a  hansom. 

"Where  to?"  said  the  cabman,  and  Jack,  half  absently, 
answered : 

"Park  Lane." 

The  man  had  often  driven  him  before,  and  he  drove 
straight  to  Lady  Bell's. 

Jack  walked  into  the  drawing-room  quite  naturally — 
the  room  was  familiar  to  him — and  sat  down  before  the 
fire ;  and  Lady  Bell  came  in  with  outstretched  hand. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  have  someone  left,  and  Jack  greeted 
her  warmly,  more  warmly  than  he  knew  or  intended.  Lady 
Bell's  face  flushed  as  he  held  her  hand  longer  than  was 
absolutely  necessary. 

"Thank  Heaven !  there  is  someone  left,"  he  said,  devout- 
ly. "They  have  all  gone,  and  Len  is  out,  and— 

"I  am  left,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "Well,  you  are  just  in 
time  for  luncheon.  I  half  expected  you,  and  I  have  told 
them  to  make  a  curry." 

Curry  was  one  of  Jack's  weaknesses. 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  gratefully.  He  felt, 
very  unreasonably,  neglected  somehow.  "You  always  seem 
to  know  what  a  fellow  likes." 

"That's  because  I  have  a  good  memory,"  said  Lady  Bell, 
smiling  down  at  him.  "I  shall  take  care  to  have  plenty  of 
curries  at  Earl's  Court.  And,  by  the  way,  will  you  choose 
a  paper  for  the  smoking-room  down  there?  I  have  told 
them  that  they  must  do  it  at  once." 

Jack  rose  without  a  word ;  he  had  been  choosing  papers 
and  decorations  for  a  week  past,  and  it  did  not  seem 
strange.  Luncheon  was  announced  while  they  were  dis- 
cussing the  paper,  and  Jack  gave  her  his  arm.  Mrs.  Fel- 
lowes  was  the  only  other  person  present,  and  she  sat  read- 
ing a  novel,  deaf  and  blind  to  all  else.  Not  but  what  she 
might  have  heard  every  word,  for  the  young  people  talked 
of  the  most  commonplace  subjects,  and  Jack  was  very  ab- 
sent-minded, thinking  of  Una,  and  quite  unconscious  of 


250  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

the  light  which  beamed  in  Lady  Bell's  eyes  when  they 
rested  on  him. 

Then  they  rode  in  the  Row;  he  could  do  no  less  than 
offer  to  accompany  her,  and  Mrs.  Fellowes  wanted  to  see 
a  piece  at  one  of  the  theatea?,  and  Jack  went  to  book 
seats,  and  took  one  for  himself,  and  sat  staring  at  the 
stage  and  thinking  of  Una ;  but  he  sat  behind  Lady  Bell's 
chair,  and  spoke  to  her  occasionally,  and  Lady  Bell  was 
content. 

Hetley  and  Arkroyd  were  in  the  stalls,  and  saw  him. 

"Jack's  making  the  running,"  said  Lord  Dalrymple, 
eying  the  box  through  his  opera  glass.  "He's  the  winning 
horse,  and  we,  the  field,  are  nowhere." 

And  not  only  those  two,  but  many  others,  remarked  on 
Jack's  close  attendance  on  the  great  heiress,  and  not  a  few 
who  would  have  gone  to  the  box  if  he  had  not  been  there, 
kept  away. 

Meanwhile,  Jack,  simple,  unsuspecting  Jack,  was  be- 
stowing scarcely  a  thought  on  the  beautiful  woman  by  his 
side,  and  thinking  of  Una  miles  away. 

The  theater  over,  and  Lady  Bell  put  into  the  carriage, 
he  looked  in  at  the  club,  sauntered  into  the  card-room, 
smoked  a  cigar  in  the  smoking-room,  and  then  went  home 
to  Spider  Court. 

Much  to  his  surprise  he  found  Leonard  up,  not  only  up, 
but  pacing  the  room,  his  face  flushed  and  agitated. 

"Hallo!"  exclaimed  Jack,  "what's  the  matter?  And 
where  on  earth  have  you  been?" 

"Jack,  I  have  found  her !" 

"Thaf  s  just  what  I  said  some  months  ago !" 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  have  been  thinking  how  strangely 
alike  our  love  affairs  have  been.  It  is  my  turn  now.  I 
have  found  her!" 

"What,  this  young  lady,  Laura  Treherne?" 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  with  a  long  breath. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Jack.  "Hold  hard  a  min- 
ute, till  I  get  something  to  drink.  Now,  fire  away." 

"Well,"  said  Leonard,  still  pacing  up  and  down,  and 
seeming  scarcely  conscious  of  Jack's  presence,  "I  was 
walking  in  the  park.  You  know  the  place,  that  quiet  wall? 
under  the  beeches.  I  wa?  tbinking  of  you  and  your  love 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  ','51 

affairs,  when  I  saw,  sitting  under  a  tree,  a  figure  that  1 
knew  at  once.  For  a  moment  I  could  not  move,  and 
scarcely  think;  then  I  wondered  how  I  should  get  to  speak- 
to  her;  but  presently,  when  I  had  pulled  myself  together, 
I  saw  that  she  had  dropped  her  handkerchief,  and  1  went 
and  picked  it  up  and  took  it  to  her." 

"A  fine  opening,"  muttered  Jack. 

Leonard  Dagle  evidently  did  not  hear  him. 

"Well,  she  started  when  I  approached  her,  and  merely 
thanked  me  with  a  bow,  but  I  was  determined  not  to  let 
her  go  this  time,  and  I  said,Tardon  me,  but  we  have  met  be- 
fore/ 'Where?'  said  she.  'In  a  railway  carriage/  I  said, 
and  she -looked  at  me,  and  trembled.  'I  remember,'  she 
said,  and  I  swear  I  saw  her  shudder.  'Since  then,'  I  said, 
'I  have  sought  you  far  and  near/  'Why  should  you  do 
that  ?'  she  asked." 

"A  very  natural  question,"  interjected  Jack. 

"Then  I  told  her.  I  told  her  that  from  that  hour  I  had 
been  unable  to  rid  my  mind  of  her  face,  that  it  had 
haunted  me ;  that  I  had  followed  her  and  learned  her  ad- 
dress ;  and  that  though  I  had  lost  her  I  had  sought  her  all 
over  London." 

"Was  she  angry?"  asked  Jack. 

"At  first  she  was,"  said  Leonard,  "very  angry,  but  some- 
thing in  my  voice  or  my  face — Heaven  knows  I  was  earn- 
est enough !  convinced  her  that  I  meant  no  harm,  and  she 
listened." 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  interested  and  excited. 

"Well,"  said  Leonard,  "we  sat  talking  for  an  hour,  per- 
haps more,  and  she  has  promised  to  meet  me  again;  at 
least  she  admitted  that  she  walked  in  the  park  every  after- 
noon. I  tried  to  get  her  address,  but  she  told  me  plainly 
that  she  would  not  give  it  to  me." 

"And  is  that  all  you  learned?"  asked  Jack,  with  some- 
thing like  good-natured  contempt. 

"No !"  replied  Leonard.  "I  learned  that  she  had  been  in- 
jured— oh,  not  in  the  way  you  think — and  that  she  had 
some  purpose  to  effect — some  wrong  to  right." 

"And  of  course  you  offered  to  help  her?"  said  Jack. 

"I  offeree^ to  help  her;  I  laid  my  services,  my  whole 
time  and  »t  <:ngth,  at  her  disposal ;  I  went  so  far  as  to  be- 


252  ONLY  OXI<  LOYK;  OR, 

seecb  her  to  tell  me  what  this  purpose,  this  wrong  was; 
but  she  would  not  tell  me,  and  so  we  parted.  But  we  are 
to  meet  again.  She  is  much  changed;  paler  and  thinner 
than  when  I  saw  her  in  the  railway  carriage,  but  still 
more  beautiful  in  my  eyes  than  any  other  woman  in  the 
world." 

"It  is  a  strange  affair,"  mused  Jack.  "Quite  a  romance 
in  its  way.  Isn't  it  funny,  Len,  that  both  our  love  affairs 
should  be  romantic,  and  so  much  alike !'' 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  "very.  But  mine  has  scarcely  be- 
gun, while  yours  has  ended  happily,  or  will  do  so,  if  you 
do  not  play  the  fool  \" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Jack,  sharply. 

"Where  have  you  been  to-night?"  asked  Leonard. 

"To  the  theater  with  Lady  Bell." 

"I  expected  as  much,"  said  Leonard,  and  he  fell  to  at 
his  writing,  and  would  say  no  more,  though  Jack  stormed 
and  rave'd. 

Meanwhile  the  Davenant  party  had,  thanks  to  Stephen, 
made  a  comfortable  journey.  They  found  a  carriage  and 
pair  waiting  for  them  at  the  station;  not  the  ramshackle 
vehicle  of  the  old  squire's  time,  but  a  new  carriage  from 
the  best  man  in  Long  Acre,  and  they  were  rolled  along  the 
country  lanes  in  a  style  Ralph  Davenant  would  have  mar- 
veled at. 

Presently  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Hurst,  and  Mrs. 
Davenant  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Why,  Stephen,  it  is  altered !"  she  said. 

Stephen  smiled  proudly. 

Short  as  the  time  had  been  he  had  effected  a  radical 
change  in  the  old  house;  a  hundred  workmen  had  been 
busy,  and  the  ramshackle  old  mansion  had  been  trans- 
formed. Wings  had  been  added,  the  grounds  had  been 
newly  laid  out ;  the  road,  even,  had  been  altered,  and  they 
drove  through  an  avenue  of  thriving  young  limes. 

Una,  silent  and  interested,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
house.  She  had  often  heard  Jack  describe  it,  but  this  pala- 
tial residence  did  not  answer  to  his  description.  Stephen's 
money  and^energy  had  entirely  transformed  the  place. 

The  carriage  pulled  up  at  the  entrance,  and  half  a  dozen 
grooms  flew  to  the  horses'  heads:  footmen  in  handsome 


WHO  WAS  THE  II K I K  ? 

liveries  stood  in  attendance,  and  the  servants  formed  a 
lane  for  their  master  to  pass  through.  Una  had  oft  CD  read 
of  such  a  reception,  hut  here  was  a  reality. 

Stephen  helped  her  to  alight,  and  took  her  and  his 
mother  on  his  arm,  his  head  erect,  a  warm  flush  on  his 
cheek. 

Suddenly  the  flush  disappeared  and  a  frown  took  its 
place  as  he  saw  amongst  the  crowd  gathered  together  at 
the  entrance  the  parchment-like  visage  of  old  Skettle. 

But  the  frown  disappeared  as  he  entered  the  house,  and 
stood  silent,  listening  to  the  approving  comments  of  Mrs. 
Davenant. 

"My  dear  Stephen,"  she  said,  "you  have  certainly  altered 
the  place — I  should  not  have  known  it.  And  is  this  what 
was  the  gloomy  old  Hall?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  proudly,  and  he  glanced  round  at 
the  alterations  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  and  looked  at 
Una's  face  for  some  sign  of  approval. 

But  Una  was  looking  around  anxiously.  If  it  was  so 
much  altered,  then  it  wa§  not  the  old  home  that  Jack  knew 
and  remembered. 

"You  will  find  everything  altered  and  improved,  I  hope," 
said  Stephen. 

Altered,  indeed !  They  have  even  shifted  the  old  stair- 
case, so  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  found  tho 
room  in  which  the  old  squire  died,  exclaiming : 

"You  thief !  you  thief !  what  have  you  done  with  the 
will?" 

Yes,  indeed,  there  was  great  alteration.  The  old  squire, 
if  he  had  come  to  life  again,  would  not  have  known  Hurst 
as  Stephen  had  made  it.  Masons,  carpenters,  and  deco- 
rators had  been  at  work  to  some  purpose.  Everything  was 
changed,  and  unmistakably  for  the  better. 

Stephen  looked  around  with  an  air  of  pride. 

"They  have  been  Very  quick,"  he  said.  "I  placed  it  in 
good  hands.  You  will  find  everything  you  require  up- 
stairs. You  must  know,"  he  said,  turning  to  Una,  "that  I 
found  the  place  little  better  than  a  barn,  and  have  done 
my  best  to  make  it  fit  to  receive  you!  You  are  looking 
at  the  portraits,"  he  added,  seeing  Una's  gaze  wandering 
along  the  double  line  of  dead  and  gone  Davenants.  Most 


264  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OB, 

of  them  you  would  not  have  seen  two  months  ago,  they 
had  been,  terribly  neglected,  but  I  have  had  them  cleaned 
and  renewed.  That  is  the  old  squire,  my  poor  uncle,"  and 
he  sighed  comfortably. 

Una  paused  before  this,  the  last  portrait  of  the  series, 
and  looked  at  it  long  and  curiously,  and  the  other  two 
stood  and  watched  her,  Stephen  with  a  keen  glance  of 
scrutiny  and  with  a  nervous  tremor  about  his  heart.  If 
she  could  but  know  that  she  was  looking  at  the  portrait  of 
her  own  father!  Una  turned  away  at  last  with  a  faint 
sigh.  She  was  thinking  that  this  was  the  old  man  who 
had  once  loved  Jack  and  left  him  to  poverty. 
Mrs.  Davenant  shuddered  slightly. 
"He  was  a  terrible  old  man,  my  dear,"  she  murmured, 
"and  always  frightened  me.  I  trembled  when  he  looked 
at  me." 

"He  does  not  look  so  terrible,"  said  Una,  sadly. 
Stephen  fidgeted  slightly. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  must  not  catch  cold.  Your  maids 
are  here  by  this  time.  Will  you  go  up  to  your  room  ?  The 
housekeeper  will  show  them  to  you,  and  I  hope  you  will 
find  everything  comfortable." 

Very  slowly,  looking  to  right  and  left  of  her,  Una  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Davenant  up  the  broad  staircase. 

The  place  seemed  to  have  a  strange  fascination  for  her ; 
she  could  almost  have  persuaded  herself  that  she  had  been 
in  it  before,  and  it  seemed  familiar,  though  so  much 
changed  from  all  likeness  to  Jack's  description  of  it. 

They  found  the  rooms  upstairs  beautifully  decorated, 
and  furnished  in  the  most  approved  and  luxurious  style. 
Lady  Bell's  house  in  Park  Lane  even  was  eclipsed. 

"Stephen  has  made  it  a  palace,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant. 
"How  I  used  to  hate  it  in  the  old  time!  it  was  so  dark 
and  grim  and  gloomy,  always  felt  dull  and  damp.  Ste- 
phen tells  me  that  he  has  had  it  thoroughly  drained  after 
the  new  fashion,  and  that  it  is  quite  dry.  Such  a  palace 
as  this  wants  a  mistress ;  I  wish  he  would  marry." 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  him  so  ?"  said  Una,  with  a  smile. 
Mrs.  Davenant  shook  her  head  nervously. 
"That  would  do  no  good,  my  dear,"  she  said.    "I  some- 
times think  he  will  never  marry/' 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  ;>.T.J 

And  she  glanced  at  Una  with  some  embarrassment.  A 
dim  suspicion  had  of  late  crossed  her  mind  that  if  Una 
had  been  free,  Stephen  might  have  stood  in  Jack's  place. 
She  could  not  help  noticing  Stephen's  close  attend- 
ance on  Una — a  mother's  eyes  are  sharp  to  note  such 
things. 

If  the  old  squire  could  have  seen  the  dining-room  and 
the  elaborate  menu  that  evening,  he  would  have  stared 
and  sworn.  Stephen  had  engaged  a  French  cook;  the  ap- 
pointments were  as  perfect  as  they  could  be;  the  servants 
admirably  trained,  and  as  to  the  wines  the  Hurst  cellar 
stood  second  to  none  in  the  country. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were  sparing  no  pains  to  im- 
press on  Una  all  that  the  wife  of  Stephen  Davenant 
would  possess.  And  Una,  more  than,  half  the  dinner-time, 
was  thinking  of  Jack,  and  fondly  picturing  the  little  house 
they  had  so  often  talked  of  setting  up  when  the  commis- 
sionership  came  home.  Just  at  the  same  time,  Jack  was 
leaning  over  Lady  Bell's  chair  in  the  theater. 

Stephen  was  in  his  best  mood,  and  exerted  himself  to 
the  uttermost.  He  described  the  neighborhood,  planned 
excursions  and  expeditions ;  told  innumerable  anecdotes  of 
the  village  folk,  and  played  the  host  to  perfection. 

In  a  thousand  ways  he  showed  his  anxiety  for  Una's 
comfort;  and  after  dinner  he  had  the  place  lit  up,  and 
went  over  it,  asking  her  opinion  on  this  point  and  the 
other,  and  humbly  begging  her  to  suggest  alterations.  So 
much  so  that  Una  began  to  grow  shy  and  reserved,  and 
shrank  closer  to  Mrs.  Davenant;  and  Stephen,  quick  to 
see  when  he  was  going  too  fast,  left  them  and  went  to  tho 
library  to  write  letters. 

Now,  strange  to  say,  of  all  the  rooms  in  the  house,  this 
one  room  remained  unaltered.  He  had  not  allowed  it  to 
be  touched — indeed  it  was  kept  closely  locked,  and  the  key 
never  left  him  night  and  day.  Just  as  it  had  been  on  tho 
night  of  the  squire's  death,  when  Stephen  stood  with  the 
stolen  will  in  his  hand,  so  it  was  now. 

He  never  entered  it  without  a  shudder,  and  alt  the  time 
he  was  in  it  his  eyes  unconsciously  wandered  over  tho 
floor  and  furniture  as  if  mechanically  searching  for  some- 
thing. 


256  OXLY  OXK  LOVE;  OR, 

It  exerted  a  strange,  weird  influence  over  him,  and 
seemed  to  drn.v  iiiiu  into  it.  Tonight  he  paced  up  and 
down,  looking  at  the  familiar  objects,  and  making  no  at- 
tempt to  write  his  letters. 

His  brain  was  bus}',  not  with  schemes  of  ambition  and 
avarice,  but  of  love.  The  blood  run.  riot  in  his  veins  as  he 
thought  that  Una  was  under  the  same  roof  as  himself,  and 
one  mighty  resolve  took  possession  of  him. 

"She  shall  never  leave  it  but  to  come  back  as  my  wife/' 
was  his  resolve. 

Even  the  lost  will  did  not  trouble  him  tonight.  He 
had  Una  in  his  grasp,  Una  upon  whom  everything  turned. 

It  was  far  into  the  morning  before  he  went  to  bed,  and 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  turned  and  looked  round  with 
a  proud  smile. 

"All — all  mine!"  he  muttered,  "and  I  will  have  her, 
too,"  and  he  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed,  not  of  Una,  but 
of  Laura  Treherne. 

All  through  the  watches  of  the  night  the  pale,  dark  face 
haunted  him.  At  times  he  saw  it  peering  at  him  through 
the  library  window,  at  others  it  was  pursuing  him  along  an 
endless  road ;  but  always  it  wore  a  threatening  aspect  and 
filled  him  with  a  vague  terror. 

Some  men's  conscience  only  awake  at  night. 


CHAPTEE  XXXII. 

If  Una  had  been  a  queen  visiting  some  distant  part  of 
her  realm,  more  elaborate  preparations  for  her  amusement 
could  not  have  been  made. 

Not  a  day  passed  but  Stephen  had  got  some  proposi- 
tion for  pleasuring,  and  he  never  tired  of  hunting  up  some 
place  to  go. 

One  morning  they  would  drive  to  some  romantic  and 
historic  spot ;  another  there  would  be  some  flower  show  or 
fete,  which  he  insisted  upon  them  seeing;  on  others,  they 
would  play  lawn  tennis  in  the  now  beautiful  grounds.  The 
fame  of  the^new  Hurst  had  spread  abroad,  and  those  of  the 
county  families  who  were  in  residence  called  at  once,  and 
dinner  parties  were  given  and  accepted.  So  the  week 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  257 

glided  by  quickly,  even  to  Una,  who  reckoned  time  by  tin- 
day  on  which  she  would  see  Jack. 

Every  morning  there  canie  a  scrawl — Jack's  handwrit- 
ing was  mysterious  and  terrible — from  him;  in  every  let- 
ter he  expressed  his  longing  to  see  her,  and  the  hateful 
time  he  was  having  in  town.  But  every  letter  had  some 
mention  of  Lady  Bell;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  at  Park  Lane. 

But  Una  was  not  jealous — she  put  away  from  her  reso- 
lutely any  feeling  of  that  kind. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  Lady  Bell  is  in  town,  and  that  Jack 
has  some  place  to  go  to,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Pavenant. 

And  Mrs.  Davenant  smiled ;  but  sighed  at  the  same  time. 
To  her,  as  to  others,  it  seemed  that  Jack  spent  too  much 
time  in  attendance  upon  the  great  heiress. 

Stephen's  money  flew,  it  was  scattered  about  in  every 
direction ;  but  still  he  was  not  popular.  Hen  touched  their 
hats,  but  they  never  smiled  as  they  had  done  at  the  old 
squire,  and  as  they  had  done  at  Jack.  There  was  some- 
thing about  Stephen  that  the  Hurst  folk  could  not  and 
would  not  take  to ;  and  even  while  they  were  drinking  with 
his  money,  they  talked  of  Master  Jack  and  shook  their 
heads  regretfully. 

And  Stephen  knew  it,  and  hated  them  all ;  but  most  of 
all  hated  old  Skettle.  It  seemed  as  if  the  old  man  was 
ubiquitous;  he  was  everywhere.  Stephen  could  not  take 
a  walk  outside  the  grounds  but  he  came  upon  the  old  man ; 
and,  though  Skettle  always  raised  his  hat  and  gave  him 
"Good-day,"  Stephen  felt  the  small,  keen  eyes  watching 
him.  Of  Hudsley  he  had  seen  nothing. 

At  last  the  county  papers  announced  the  important  fact 
that  Lady  Earlsley  had  arrived  at  Earl's  Court,  and  Una 
knew  that  in  two  days  she  would  see  Jack. 

That  night  Stephen  was  more  attentive  than  ever.  _  They 
had  been  dining  out  at  a  neighbor's,  and  were  sitting  in 
the  drawing-room,  talking  over  the  evening.  The  pros- 
pect of  Jack's  coming  had  brought  a  glad  light  to  Una's 
eyes — a  brighter  color  to  her  face.  In  two  days  she  should 
gee  him!  In  her  happiness  she  felt  amiable  and  tender 
to  all  around  her,  and,  for  the  first  time,  she  responded  to 
Stephen's  unceasing  devotion.  He  had  brought  in  from 


258  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

the  new  library  a  whole  pile  of  books  relating  to  the  coun- 
ty, and  was  showing  and  explaining  the  illustrations. 

"That  is  Earl's  Court/'  he  said ;  "a  beautiful  place,  isn't 
it  ?  But  Lady  Bell  has  several  grander  places  than  that." 

"She  is  very  rich,"  said  Una. 

"Very,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "It's  a  pity  that  she 
does  not  marry." 

Una  smiled. 

"She  says  that  she  will  never  marry,"  she  said. 

Stephen  looked  up. 

"And  yet  a  little  while  ago  they  were  saying  that  she 
would  be  married  before  the  vear  was  out." 

"Indeed !"  said  Una. 

"It  would  be  a  grand  match  for  any  ene,"  said  Ste- 
phen. "It  would  have  been  a  great  match  for  him/' 

"For  him?"  said  Una.    "Who  was  it?" 

Stephen  started  and  looked  embarrassed,  as  if  he  had 
made  a  slip  of  the  tongue. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  little,  awkward  laugh ;  "but — are 
you  jealous?  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell  tales  out  of 
school,  though  the  affair  is  off  long  ago,  and  he  has  made 
a  happier  choice." 

Una  put  the  fire  screen  on  one  side  and  looked  at  him 
calmly.  He  was  sitting  almost  at  her  feet.  Mrs.  Dave- 
nant  was  dozing  in  her  accustomed  arm-chair. 

"Of  whom  do  yon  speak?"  she  asked. 

Stephen  hesitated,  as  if  reluctant  to  reply. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  is  mere  gossip,  of  course,  but  gos- 
sip awarded  the  great  prize  of  the  season  to  a  near  and 
dear  friend  of  yours." 

Una's  heart  beat  fast.     She  guessed  what  was  coming. 
'Tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Tut !"  said  Stephen,  as  if  ashamed  to  retail  such  idle 
gossip. 

''Well,  they  said  that  Jack  meant  to  marry  the  great 
heiress." 

"It  is  not  true,"  Una  said ;  but  her  color  went,  and  left 
her  quite  pale  and  cold. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Stephen,  cheerfully;  "though  T 
would  not  say  but  there  wa«  some  excuse  for  the  rumor. 
Jack  was  a  great  deal  at  Pa:  V  Lan  -ntil  ho  mot— one  who 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  259 

shall  be  nameless."  And  he  looked  up  at  her  with  a  smile. 
"Why,  they  went  so  far  as  to  congratulate  him,"  lie  said, 
laughing  as  if  at  an  excellent  joke.  "And  indeed  1  think 
if  Jack  had  said  'Yes/  Lady  Bell  would  not  have  said 
'No.'  So,  you  see,  that  you  have  made  a  veritable  con- 
quest !" 

And  he  laughed  again. 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  Una's  pale  face. 
It  was  not  of  Lady  Bell  she  thought,  but  of  herself  and 
Jack. 

It  was  true  she  had  stepped  in  between  Jack  and 
wealth  and  prosperity — she,  the  penniless  daughter  of  a 
woodman,  had  prevented  his  marrying  the  great  heiress 
and  becoming  the  master  of  Earl's  Court  and  all  the 
Earlsley  wealth !  A  chill  passed  over  her,  and  she  raised 
the  screen  to  hide  her  face  from  Stephen's  eye. 

"Yes,  it  would  have  been  a  great  match  for  Jack,"  he 
said,  carelessly — "it  would  have  set  him  on  his  feet,  as 
they  say.  But  he  is  still  more  fortunate."  And  he  sighed. 

Una  rose. 

"I  think  I  will  go  up  now,"  she  said;  and  she  went  and 
woke  Mrs.  Davenant. 

Stephen  escorted  them  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  smiling 
as  if  nothing  had  been  said,  and  then  went  straight  to  the 
old  library  and  rang  the  bell. 

It  was  understood  that  no  one  was  to  answer  the  li- 
brary bell  but  Shimmers,  and  Slummers  now  appeared. 

Stephen  wrote  two  letters;  one  ran  thus: 

"MY  DEAR  MR.  ROLFE: — Be  kind  enough  to  be  at  my 
chambers  tomorrow  morning  at  eight  o'clock/' 

The  other  was  still  more  short ;  it  was  addressed  to  Mr. 
Levy  Moss: 

"Put  on  the  screw  at  once." 

Calmly  and  leisurely  he  put  them  in  their  envelopes,  as 
if  the  fate  and  happiness  of  two  souls  we/e  not  hanging 
upon  them,  and  gave  them  to  Slummers. 

"Take  the  morning  express  and  deliver  these  yourself," 
he  said,  quietly.  "I  shall  follow  you  by  the  midday 
train.  When  you  have  done  so,  find  Mr.  Newcombe  and 
keep  him  in  sight.  You  understand?" 

"Quite,  sir/'  said  Slummers,  and  disappeared  as  silently 
as  usual. 


260  OXLT  OXE  LOVE;  OK, 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

It  was  Jack's  last  day  in  town.  Tomorrow  he  would  be 
at  Earl's  Court,  and  in  the  evening  would  be  riding  as 
fast  as  a  horse  could  carry  him  to  Una. 

The  hours  seemed  to  drift  with  leaden  wings. 

It  was  no  use  going  to  Park  Lane,  for  the  blinds  were 
down,  and  Lady  Bell  was  at  Earl's  Court.  It  was  no  use 
going  to  the  club,  for  the  whitewashers  had  taken  pos- 
session of  it;  never  had  Jack  been  so  utterly  bored  and 
wearied.  At  last  he  strolled  into  the  park,  and  sat  on  one 
of  the  seats  and  stared  at  the  Row,  giving  himself  up  to 
thoughts  of  Una,  and  picturing  their  meeting  on  the 
morrow. 

He  lingered  in  the  park  till  dusk :  then  he  went  home  to 
dress. 

"Still  writing,  old  man?"  he  said,  as  he  entered,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  Leonard's  shoulder. 

"Halloa!  is  that  you,  Jack?"  said  Leonard,  throwing 
down  his  pen.  "I  have  been  expecting  you." 

"Why  for?"  asked  Jack,  yawning.  Then  he  looked  up 
curiously.  "I  wish  I'd  known  it ;  I'd  have  come  home. 
Look  here,  Len,  we'll  go  and  dine  somewhere;  if  there 
is  anything  left  to  eat  in  this  howling  desert  of  a  Lon- 
don. If  ever  any  man  was  bored  to  death  and  sick  of  it, 
I  am  this  day.  Twenty-four  hours  more  of  it,  and  I 
should  chuck  myself  into  the  Serpentine!  I  never  spent 
such  a  day " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  he  became  conscious  that 
Leonard  was  standing,  looking  down  at  him  with  a  grave 
and  earnest  regard. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  he  asked. 

Leonard  hesitated. 

"^Jack,"  he  said,  at  last,  "Moss  has  been  here." 

"Oh,  has  he?"  said  Jack,  carelessly.     v 

"Yes,  and  there  is  trouble  about.  He  is  pressing  for 
his  money." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Jack. 

Leonard  nodded. 

"Yea,  he  means  mischief;  he  made  quite  a  fuss  here. 
Said  he  had  a  heavy  claim  to  meet r" 


WHO  WAS  THE  H Kilt  I-  ^lii 

"Oh,  I  know  that  old  yarn." 

"And  that  he  must  and  would  have  money  to  meet  those 
bills  of  yours.'' 

Jack  looked  grave. 

"Did  he  mean  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard.  "Thanks  to  you,  I  know  Mr. 
Levy  Moss  by  this  time,  and  I  am  sure  he  was  in  earnest." 

"Confound  him !"  muttered  Jack. 

"Confounding  him  won't  pay  him,"  said  Leonard,  sensi- 
bly. 

Jack  rose  and  paced  the  room. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Len?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Leonard.  "If  I  could  help  you — 
but  all  I  have  wouldn't  meet  one  bill." 

"And  I  wouldn't  take  it  if  it  would,"  said  Jack.  "But 
I  can't  understand  it !  Only  last  week  he  was  bothering 
me  to  take  a  hundred  or  two,." 

Leonard  shook  his  head. 

"All  I  can  tell  you  is,  that  he  was  simply  furious.  He 
said  that  he  must  and  would  have  some  money,  that  if  you 
did  not  pay  him  he  would " 

"Well?"  said  Jack,  grimly. 

"That  he  would  put  you  through  the  Court,"  said  Leon- 
ard. 

Jack  turned  pale. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  said.  "I  have  been  relying  on 
the  commissionership  that  Stephen  promised,  and  Moss 
seemed  quite  willing  to  wait.  I  can't  find  any  money." 

Leonard  shook  his  head. 

"The  man  was  furious.  Worse  than  I  have  ever  seen 
him.  You  will  have  to  find  some  money  somewhere. 
How  much  do  you  owe  him?" 

Jack  tilted  his  hat  on  one  side  and  scratched  his  head. 

"Hanged  if  I  know.  He  has  let  me  have  a  great  deal 
lately.  Five  hundred,  perhaps." 

"Jack,  you  have  been  a  fool,"  said  Leonard.  "I  told 
you  that  it  was  no  use  counting  upon  the  place  your 
cousin  Stephen  promised  you." 

"I  don't  so  much  care  for  myself,  but  Una,  Una,"  said 
Jack,  with  a  groan.  Then  he  jumped  up.  "Let  us  go  and 
get  some  dinner,  and  think  it  over." 


ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OK, 

'  They  went  to  a  well-known  house  in  Strand,  and  Jack, 
careless  Jack,  ordered  a  dinner  fit  for  a  prince,  and  en- 
joyed it  as  he  would  have  enjoyed  it  if  he  had  been  going 
to  be  hanged  on  the  morrow. 

"I  don't  understand  Moss,"  he  said.  "He  was  every- 
thing that  was  agreeable  and  pleasant  a  few  days  ago." 

"And  today  he  was  like  a  wolf  hunting  for  a  bone,"  said 
Leonard.  "Hello,  who's  this?"  for  a  gentleman  had  en- 
tered the  dining-room  and  approached  their  table. 

"Why,  it's  Stephen!"  exclaimed  Jack,  forgetting  Moss 
in  a  moment.  "Just  in  time,  Stephen,  we'll  have  another 
bottle  of  claret  up.  What  on  earth  brings  you  to  town? 
And  how  is — how  are  they  all  ?" 

Stephen  sat  down  with  a  grave  smile,  and  just  sipped 
the  claret,  the  best  the  house  had  on  its  list.  And  he  sat 
and  talked  till  the  wine  was  finished,  the  greater  part  of 
which  Jack  drank,  then  he  said : 

"Jack,  I  want  you  to  come  to  my  chambers;  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Jack.  "Leonard  can  find  his  way 
home  very  well." 

Stephen  called  a  hansom,  and  they  were  rattled  away  to 
the  Albany. 

As-  they  ascended  the  stairs,  Stephen  laid  his  hand  on 
Jack's  arm. 

"Jack,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  bad  news  for  you. 
You  will  be  calm." 

"Bad  news!"  said  Jack,  and  his  heart  stood  still. 
"What  is  it?  Una » 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen;  "it  is  about  Una,  You  will  be 
calm,  my  dear  Jack?" 

Jack  leaned  against  the  balustrade  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Is  she  ill — dead?"  he  gasped. 

"Neither,"  said  Stephen.    "Come,  be  a  man." 

"I  am  ready,"  said  Jack.  "If  she  is  neither  ill  nor  dead 
I  can  bear  anything  else." 

Stephen  opened  the  door,  and  Jack,  entering,  saw 
Gideon  Rolfe  standing  on  the  hearthrug. 

"Mr.  Bolfe !"  he  exclaimed.  "How  do  you  do?  lam 
very  glad  to  see  you !"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  20 

Gideon  Rolfe  nodded  and  turned  aside. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Jack,  turning 
to  Stephen,  who  had  carefully  closed  the  door  and  stood 
with  knitted  brow  and  sad  countenance. 

At  Jack's  question  he  glanced  at  Rolfe,  and  then,  with  a 
sigh,  said: 

"Yes,  Jack,  I  will  tell  you.  It  will  come  better  from 
me  than  Mr.  Rolfe.  Jack,  you  were  right  in  suspecting 
that  the  business  referred  to  Una.  She  is  quite  well — 
and  happy.  But — but  I  am  afraid  your  engagement  must 
cease." 

At  this,  Jack's  calmness  came  back  to  him,  and  with 
something  like  a  smile,  he  said,  scornfully: 

"Indeed  1" 

"Yes,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe,  but  Stephen  held  up  his 
hand  and  silenced  him. 

"Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  for  what  reason  ?"  said  Jack, 
quietly. 

"For  a  sad,  very  sad  reason,"  said  Stephen,  in  a  subdued 
and  mournful  tone.  "Jack,  my  heart  bleeds  for  you " 

"Never  mind  your  heart,"  said  Jack,  curtly.  "Come 
to  the  point,  Stephen." 

"I  sympathize  with  you  deeply,"  continued  Stephen,  not 
at  all  affronted.  "The  fact  is,  Mr.  Rolfe  has  tonight 
made  a  communication  respecting  our  dear  young  friend, 
which  has  completely  overwhelmed  me 

"Let  me  see  if  it  will  overwhelm  me,"  said  Jack.  "What 
is  it?" 

"My  dear  Jack,  it  is  a  story  involving  shame " 

"Shame!"  echoed  Jack,  and  his  brow  darkened.  "To 
whom?" 

"Tb  those  who  can  feel  shame  no  longer,"  said 
Stephen ;  "but  alas !  its  shadow  falls  on  a  young  life  as  in- 
nocent and  pure  as  the  angels." 

"On  Una?"  demanded  Jack,  fiercely. 

Stephen  bowed  his  head. 

"Yes,  Jack.  Una  is  a  nameless  child — she  is  illegiti- 
mate." 

Jack  reeled  and  fell  into  a  chair,  and  there  he  sat  for 
a  moment. 

"It  is  a  lie !"  he  said  at  last. 


264  ONLY  OXE  LOVE:  OR, 

"It  is  true !"  «aid  the  deep  voice  of  Gideon  Rolfe ;  and 
Jack,  fixing  his  startled  eyes  on  the  rough,  rugged  face, 
knew  that  it  was  the  truth. 

With  a  groan  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands;  then 
he  started  up  and  struck  the  table  a  blow  that  made 
Stephen  wince. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  short  laugh — "well,  what 
business  is  it  of  anyone's  but  mine  and  Una's?  What  do 
I  care  whether  she  is  illegitimate  or  not  ?  Let  her  be  the 
daughter  of  whom  she  may,  married  or  unmarried,  it  mat- 
ters not  to  me.  She  is  Una,  and  that  is  enough !" 

His  voice  rang  out  loud  and  clear  as  a  bell's  tone,  and 
he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  defiantly. 

"And  now  that  is  settled,"  he  said,  sternly.  "Let  us 
come  to  particulars,  to  proof.  Mr.  Rolfe,  though  I  know 
you  are  averse  to  our  marriage,  I  believe  you.  I  do  not 
think  you  are  capable  of  inventing  a  lie — a  base,  fiendish 
lie — to  serve  your  ends.  But  all  the  same  I  ask,  and  not 
without  reason,  some  proofs.  First,  who  are  Una's  par- 
ents?" 

Gideon  Rolfe  was  about  to  reply,  but  a  glance  from 
Stephen  stopped  him. 

"That  is  the  question  I  have  implored  Mr.  Rolfe  to 
answer,"  he  said.  "I  have  entreated  him  to  give  us  some 
information,  but  he  declines.  It  is  a  secret  which  he  says 
shall  go  down  to  the  grave  with  him,  unless " 

"Unless  what?"  demanded  Jack,  hoarsely. 

"Unless  you  are  still  determined  to  hold  Una  to  her 
engagement.  Then " 

He  paused,  and  Jack  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Well?" 

"Then  he  declares  he  will  go  to  Una  and  inform  her  of 
the  shame  that  clings  to  her  name." 

Jack  uttered  a  low  cry  and  sank  back  in  his  chair.  He 
saw  by  what  heavy  chains  he  was  bound.  To  get  posses- 
sion of  Una  he  must  inflict  the  agony  of  shame  upon  her. 

If  ever  a  man  loved  truly  and  nobly  Jack  loved  Una, 
He  would  have  died  the  death  to  spare  her  a  moment's 
pain;  and  here  was  this  man  threatening  to  darken  and 
curse  her  whole  life  if  he,  Jack,  did  not  relinquish  her. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  26:, 

"Are  you  human  ?"  he  said,  turning  his  eyes  upon  Gideon 
Rolfe  with  a  wild,  hunted  gaze. 

Gideon  Rolfe  smiled  bitterly. 

"I  am  human  enough  to  prevent  this  marriage." 

Jack  rose  and  confronted  him. 

"I  will  not  give  her  up,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  defy 
you !" 

"Good !"  snid  Gideon  Rolfe.  "Then  I  go  to  the  girl  and 
acquaint  her  with  the  true  story  of  her  birth.  If  I  know 
her — and  I  do — she  has  sufficient  pride  to  prevent  her 
staining  so  honorable  a  family  as  the  Davenants  by  marry- 
ing into  it,"  and  he  sneered  bitterly. 

Jack's  face  flushed. 

"You  professed  to  love  her,"  he  said.  "Are  you  totally 
indifferent  to  her  happiness?" 

"No  happiness  could  follow  her  union  to  one  of  your 
race,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe. 

Stephen  trembled.  He  was  playing  a  dangerous  and 
..desperate  game.  A  word  from  Rolfe  might  put  Jack  in 
possession  of  Una's  real  parentage,  and  Stephen  would 
be  ruined. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "I  have  besought 
Mr.  Rolfe,  almost  on  my  knees,  to  hold  his  hand,  but  he  is 
like  stone — immovable." 

There  Was  a  pause. 

Jack  stood,  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  his  heart  beating  wildly. 
His  frenzied  brain  saw  the  whole  thing  clearly.  On  one 
side  stood  his  passionate  love  and  his  life-long  happiness, 
on  the  other  Una's  shame  and  agony. 

"I  love  her  so !"  he  moaned. 

"You  say  that  you  love  her,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe,  sternly. 
"Prove  it  by  saving  her  from  the  knowledge  of  the  shame 
which  clings  to  her  name.  If  your  love  is  worth  anything 
it  will  make  that  sacrifice.  Remember,  it  is  on  your  side 
only.  She  is  young — a  mere  girl,  a  few  weeks,  months  at 
most,  and  she  will  have  learned  to  forget  you." 

"That's  a  lie,  at  least,"  groaned  Jack.  "I  know  her  bet- 
ter than  you." 

"No  matter,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe,  coldly.  "Time  will 
heal  a  disappointed  love;  no  time  can  heal  an  undying 
shame." 


266  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

Jack  rose  and  paced  the  room. 

"Leave  me  alone  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"I  must  think  this  out ;  nothing  you  can  say  can  influence 
me." 

At  a  signal  from  Stephen,  Gideon  Rolfe  remained  silent. 

Five  minutes  passed  and  then  Jack  came  to  the  light. 

The  handsome  face  was  haggard  and  white  and  so 
changed  that  ten  years  might  have  passed  over  his  head  in 
those  few  minutes. 

"Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  broken  and 
hollow,  "why  you  bear  me  such  deadly  enmity  I  cannot 
imagine,  and  you  will  not  tell  me  ?" 

Gideon  Rolfe  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"It  is  a  mystery  to  me;  I  only  know  its  results.  Once 
more  I  ask  you  to  relent,  and  spare  the  unhappiness  of 
both  of  us." 

"I  am  resolved,"  said  Gideon.  "Either  relinquish  her 
or  I  tell  her  all.  The  decision  is  in  your  hands.  I  do  not 
doubt  you  will  seize  your  happiness,  even  at  the  cost  of 
her  shame." 

"Then  you  wrong  me,"  said  Jack.  "Rather  than  she 
should  know  the  shadow  which  hangs  on  her  life  I  re- 
linquish her." 

A  light  gleamed  in  Stephen's  eyes,  and  his  lips  twitched. 

"This  I  do,"  continued  Jack,  in  a  voice  so  low  and 
broken  that  it  scarcely  reached  them,  "placing  implicit 
trust  in  your  assertion  that  she  is — as  you  state." 

He  drew*  a  long  breath. 

"I  dare  not  risk  it;  but  if  in  the  future  I  should  find 
that  you  have  played  me  false — if,  I  say,  this  should  prove 
a  lie,  then  I  tell  you  beware,  for,  as  there  is  a  Heaven 
above  us,  I  will  take  my  vengeance." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe,  grimly.  "Now  write," 
and  he  pointed  to  a  bureau  on  which  stood  pen  and  paper, 
as  if  prepared  for  use. 

Jack  started. 

"You  will  not  take  my  word?"  he  said,  bitterly. 

Gideon  Rolfe  hesitated;  but,  at  a  glance  from  Stephen, 
said: 

"Let  the  knowledge  that  the  engagement  is  at  an  end 
come  from  you ;  it  will  be  better  so." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  iGr 

Jack  went  to  the  bureau  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

Yes,  if  the  blow  must  be  dealt  it  better  be  by  his  hands, 
as  tenderly  as  possible. 

He  sat  for  some  moments  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
as  utterly  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  the  others  as  if 
they  were  absent. 

Before  him  rose  the  lovely  face  with  its  trustful  eyes; 
in  his  ears  rang  the  musical  voice  which  he  should  never 
hear  again. 

What  should  he  write  ?    Why  should  he  write  ? 

Stephen  stole  behind  him. 

"You  will  be  careful  to  conceal  the  truth,  my  dear 
Jack,"  he  murmured. 

Jack  started,  and  turned  upon  him  with  a  look  that 
caused  Stephen  to  shrink  back  behind  the  table. 

"For  what  am  I  giving  up  what  is  most  precious  in 
life?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Then  in  sheer  despair  he  seized  the  pen,  and  wrote  in  a 
trembling  hand : 

MY  DEAREST: — Since  you  left  me,  circumstances  have 
occurred  which  have  changed  the  current  of  both  our  lives. 
I  dare  not  tell  you  more,  but  I  pray,  I  beseech,  you  not 
to  misjudge  me.  If  you  knew  the  position  in  which  I  am 
placed,  you  would  understand  why  I  am  acting  thus,  and 
instead  of  condemning,  pity  me.  Una,  from  this  moment 
our  lives  are  separate.  Heaven  send  you  happiness,  and 
— as  I  know  your  true,  loving  heart — forgetfulness.  I 
cannot  tell  you  more — would  to  Heaven  that  I  could. 
From  the  first  I  have  been  unworthy  of  you;  I  am  more 
unworthy  now  than  ever.  I  dare  not  ask  of  you  to  re- 
member me ;  forget  me,  Una,  forget  that  such  a  person  as 
I  ever  crossed  your  path.  Would  to  Heaven  that  we  had 
never  met !  Don't  think  hardly  of  me,  my  darling,  what- 
ever you  may  hear.  What  I  am  doing  is  as  much  for  your 
good  as  for  mine.  Good-bye.  I  shall  never  cease  to  re- 
member and  love  you,  whatever  happens.  Good-bye ! 

JACK." 

Blotted  and  smeared,  he  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope,  and 
dropped  it  before  Gideon  Kolfe;  then  he  looked  round 
for  his  hat. 

"A  glass  of  wine,  Jack?"  murmured  Stephen. 


268  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

But  Jack  took  no  more  notice  than  if  he  had  been  deaf, 
and  seizing  his  hat  staggered  from  the  room. 
-   Stephen  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  Mr.  Rolfe/'  he  said,  "we  have  conquered.  As 
for  this  note,  I  will  see  that  it  is  delivered  at  a  proper 
opportunity." 

"Good,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe;  then  he  paused,  and 
frowned  sternly.  "I  am  sorry  for  the  young  man." 

Stephen  smiled,  and  waved  his  hand. 

"A  mere  fancy,"  he  said,  lightly.  "My  dear  Jack  is 
apt  to  take  these  matters  as  very  serious,  but  he  generally 
manages  to  get  over  them.  And  now  what  will  you  take 
to  drink,  Mr.  Rolfe?" 

Gideon  Rolfe  waved  his  hand  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"I  leave  the  letter  with  you,"  he  said.     "Good-night." 

Stephen  filled  a  wine  glass  with  brandy,  and  drank  it 
off,  his  hand  shaking.  Then  he  eyed  Jack's  letter  curi- 
ously, and  at  last  held  the  envelope  over  the  steam  of  the 
hot  water,  and  drew  it  apart. 

"A  very  sensible  letter,"  he  muttered,  as  he  read. 
"Ambiguous,  but  all  the  better  for  that.  Really,  anyone 
reading  this,  would  conclude  that  Jack  had  -made  up  his 
mind  to  marry  Lady  Bell,  and  was  ashamed  to  say  so." 

Then  he  reclosed  the  envelope,  and  went  to  bed,  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Meanwhile  Jack  strode  around  the  streets  of  London, 
his  brain  in  a  whirl,  half  mad  with  "the  desperation  of 
despair,"  as  a  poet  has  it. 

At  last  he  reached  home,  and  found  the  rooms  dark  and 
lonesome,  and  Leonard  in  bed. 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  short  note  to  Lady  Bell,  tell- 
ing her  that  things  had  turned  up  which  prevented  him 
coming  to  Earl's  Court — giving  no  reason,  but  just  simply 
the  fact.  Then  he  turned  out,  and  he  walked  about  tiil 
daylight. 

When  he  came  in  Leonard  was  at  breakfast,  and  stared 
aghast  at  Jack's  haggard  face  and  changed  appearance. 

"My  dear  old  man,"  he  commenced,  but  Jack  cut  him 
short. 

"Len,  I'm  the  most  miserable   wretch   in   existence. 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  2H9 

Don't  ask  me  the  why  and  the  wherefore;  but  all  is  over 
between  me  and  Una." 

"Impossible!"  said  Leonard. 

"Impossible,  but  true,"  retorted  Jack.  "All  is  over  be- 
tween us,  and  if  you  value  our  friendship  you  will  not 
mention  her  name  again." 

"But— — "  said  Leonard. 

"Enough,"  said  Jack.     "I  tell  you  that  it  is  so." 

"Moss  has  been  here  agaui,"  Leonard  said. 

"I  don't  care." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow " 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Jack,  stolidly.  "A  hundred  Mosses 
wouldn'*  matter  to  me  now.  Let  him  do  his  worst." 

"Yor  don't  know  what  his  worst  is,"  said  Leonard.  "He 
has  got  you  in  his  power.  '* 

"All  right,"  said  Jack,  coolly.  "Let  him  exercise  it  to 
his  uttermost." 

Leonard  had  never  seen  Jack  like  this. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "If  Moss  does  all  he  can  do, 
he  can  expel  you  from  any  club  in  London,  catt  make 
you  an  utter  out-cast.  Come,  Jack,  be  reasonable." 

"I  can't  be  reasonable !"  retorted  Jack.  "I  am  utterly 
ruined  and  undone.  With  Una  everything  that  is  worth 
living  for  has  gone.  I  care  nothing  for  Moss  or  anything 
he  can  do." 

CHAPTER  XXXtV. 

"In  another  hour  he  will  be  here,"  said  Una,  as  she  stood 
at  her  dressing-room  window,  and  looked  out  Upon  the 
lawns  and  park  of  Hurst,  where  they  stretched  down  to- 
ward the  road. 

"Another  hour  I*'  and  at  the  thought,  a  smile — yet 
scarcely  a  smile,  but  a  suitable  light  like  a  sun  ray  stole 
over  her  face. 

The  great  poet  Tennyson  has,  in  one  of  his  greatest 
poems,  portrayed  a  girl  who,  all  unconscious  of  the  bitter 
moments  awaiting  her,  decked  herself  in  her  brightest 
ribbons  to  receive  her  expected  lover. 

Bright  ribbons  are  out  of  fashion  now,  but  Una  had 
paid  some,  for  her.  extraordinary  attention  to  her  toilet. 


270  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OE, 

Jack  was  never  tired  of  calling  her  beautiful;  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  speak  of  her  loveliness,  and  it  had  raised 
no  vanity  in  her;  but  this  evening  she  felt  she  would  like 
to  appear  really  and  truly  beautiful  in  his  eyes,  so  beau- 
tiful that  even  Lady  Bell's  spirited  face  should  be  for- 
gotten. 

She  had  chosen  the  dress  he  liked  best ;  had  selected,  with 
unusual  care,  a  couple  of  flowers  from  the  costly  bouquet, 
which,  morning  and  evening,  was  sent  to  her  room  from 
the  hot-houses,  and  had  decked  herself  in  the  locket  and 
bracelet,  and  ring  which  Jack  had  given  her. 

Mrs.  Davenant  had  made  her  many  presents  of  jewelry, 
some  of  it  costly,  and  ev  •  rare;  but  she  would  not  wear 
anything  but  Jack's  own  gifts  tonight. 

"He  will  come  fresh  from  Lady  Bell's  diamonds  and 
sapphires,  and  would  think  little  of  mine,  beautiful  as 
they  are ;  but  he  will  like  to  see  his  locket  and  his  bracelet, 
and  will  know  that  I  love  him  best." 

Not  once,  but  twice  and  thrice  she  had  moved  from  the 
window  to  the  glass,  and  looked  into  it.  Not  with  any 
expression  of  pleased  vanity,  but  rather  with  merciless 
criticism.  For  the  first  time,  she  would  like  to  be  as 
beautiful  as  Jack  thought  her.  For  the  last  few  days  she 
had  been  rather  silent,  and  somewhat  pale.  Stephen's 
cunning  hints  respecting  Jack  and  Lady  Bell  had  had 
their  effect ;  tmt  tonight's  expectation,  and  the  nearness  of 
Jack's  approach,  had  brought  a  faint  rose-like  tint  to 
her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  the  subtle  light  of 
love  and  hope. 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  at  her  as  she  entered  the 
drawing-room  and  smiled  affectionately. 

"How  well  you  look  tonight,  dear/'  she  said,  as  she 
kissed  her  and  drew  her  down  beside  her.  "I'm  inclined 
to  believe  Jack,  when  he  says  that  you  grow  more  beautiful 
than  ever." 

"Hush,"  said  Una,  but  with  a  blush.  "Jack  says  so 
many  foolish  things,  dear." 

"If  he  never  said  anything  more  foolish  than  that  he 
would  be  a  wise  man,"  'said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "How  long 
would  he  be  now,  dear  ?" 

Una  glanced  at  the  clock. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  271 

"Just  forty  minutes/'  she  said  simply. 

Mrs.  Davenant  smiled  and  patted  her  hand. 

"Counting  the  very  minutes,"  she  murmured,  gently. 
-'What  a  thing  love  is !  What  would  life  be  without  it  ?" 

"Death,"  said  Una,  with  a  grave  smile.  "Worse  than 
death." 

Mrs.  Davenant  sighed. 

"Jack  is  a  happy  man,"  she  said.  "I  wonder  whether 
Stephen  will  come  down  this  evening?" 

"Do  you  not  know?"  said  Una,  absently. 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Davenant.  "I  thought,  perhaps, 
he  might  have  told  you." 

"Me !"  said  Una,  with  open  eyes.  "Oh,  no.  Why  should 
he?" 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  quietly.  "He 
tells  you  everything,  I  think." 

Una  smiled. 

"He  is  very  good  and  kind,"  she  said,  still  a  little  ab- 
sently. "Oh,  very  kind.  No  one  could  have  taken  more 
trouble  to  make  me  hc.ppy." 

"Yes,  Stephen  likes  to  see  you  happy,"  said  Mrs  Dave- 
nant, softly.  "Poor  Stephen!"  and  she  sighed. 

But  Una  heard  neither  the  expression  of  pity  nor  the 
sigh.  She  had  risen,  and  was  moving  about  the  room  with 
fliat  suppressed  impatience  which  marks  the  one  who  wafts 
an  expected  joy. 

Presently  her  quick  ears  heard  the  rattle  of  approaching 
wheels,  and  with  a  throbbing  heart  she  looked  at  the 
clock.  %It  wanted  ten  minutes  to  the  appointed  time  for 
Jack's  arrival.  With  a  quick  flush  of  gratitude  for  his 
punctuality  she  moved  to  the  door,  and  stole  swiftly  and 
softly  to  her  own  room,  to  regain  composure.  She  heard 
the  carriage  pull  up  and  go  away  to  the  stables — heard 
the  hurried  tread  of  footsteps  in  the  marble  hall — and 
then,  with  the  faint  flush  grown  into  a  full-blown  blush; 
went  downstairs  and  entered  the  drawing-room. 

A  sudden  shock  of  disappointment  chilled  her.  Stephen 
was  standing  before  the  fire  warming  his  hands,  but  Jack 
was  not  there. 

Stephen,  in  the  glass,  saw  her  enter,  saw  the  sudden 


27?  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

start  and  disappearance  of  the  warm  flush,  and  turned  to 
meet  her. 

He  looked  tired,  pale  and  worn,  and  the  smile  with  which 
he  met  her  was  a  singular  one,  one  that  would  have  been 
almost  triumphant  but  for  the  expression  of  anxiety  un- 
derlying it. 

"I- have  got  back,  you  see,"  he  said.  "And  are  you  quite 
well?" 

Una  murmured  an  inaudible  response,  and  he  went 
back  to  the  fire  and  bent  over  it,  warming  his  'hands,  his 
face  grown,  if  anything,  still  paler. 

"How  beautiful  she  looks !"  he  thought.  "How  beau- 
tiful !  Worth  risking  all  for— all!" 

"Won't  you  go  up  and  dress,  Stephen?"  said  Mrs. 
Davenant.  "There  is  a  large  fire  in  your  rocon,  and  in 
Jack's  too;  I  have  Just  been  into  both  of  them." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  not  nervously,  but  with  almost  an 
absent  air,  and  he  left  the  room. 

"Stephen  looks  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant.  "I'm 
afraid  he  has  had  some  business  that  has  worried  him.  I 
can  always  tell  by  his  face." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Una,  gently.  "Yes,  he  did  look 
tired  and  worried,"  she  added,  but  with  her  eyes  on  the 
clock.  The  hands  went  round  to  the  hour — an  hour  be- 
yond Jack's  time — and  the  butler  announced  dinner. 

"Oh,  we  will  wait  a  little  while  for  Mr.  Newcombe!" 
said  Mrs.  Davenant,  but  Una,  with  a  little  flush,  mur- 
mured : 

"No,  do  not,  please;  Mr.  Davenant  must  want  his  din- 
ner. Please  do  not  wait ;"  and  Mrs.  Davenant,  never  able 
to  stand  put  against  anyone's  will,  rose  and  put  her  arm 
in  Una's  and  they  went  into  the  dining-room.  Stephen 
followed  and  sat  down  without  making  any  remark  on 
Jack's  absence ;  even  when  Mrs.  Davenant  said  tc  the  but- 
ler— "Let  them  be  sure  and  keep  the  soup  hot  for  Mr. 
Newcombe,"  Stephen  made  no  observation. 

Dish  after  dish  disappeared,  and  Una  made  a  faint  pre- 
tence at  eating  as  usual,  and  joined  in  the  conversation 
between  Stephen  and  Mrs.  Davenant,  but  her  eyes  were 
continually  straying  toward  the  clock,  her  ears  straining 
for  the  sound  of  wheels  or  a  galloping  horse. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  273 

The  dinner  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the  soup  had 
been  kept  hot  in  vain;  no  Jack  arrived.  Gradually  silence1 
had  fallen  on  the  three,  and  when  Mrs.  Davenant  rose  it 
was  with  a  sigh  of  loving  sympathy  with  the  troubled  heart 
that  ached  so  near  her  own. 

"I  cannot  think  what  has  kept  him/'  she  said,  when 
they  were  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room.  "If  it 
were  anyone  but  Jack  I  should  feel  nervous — but  even  I 
cannot  feel  nervous  about  him.  It  is  a  plain,  easy  road 
from  Earl's  Court,  and  he  rides  like  a — a  centaur." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Una,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire — 
"perhaps  Lady  Bell  pressed  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  and  he 
will  be  here  presently." 

"That  must  be  it,"  said  Mrs.  Davenant,  hopefully.  "He 
will  come  in  directly,  making  a  most  tremendous  noise, 
and  raging  against  whatever  has  been  keeping  him. 
Jack's  rages  are  dreadful  while  they  last — they  don't  last 
long!" 

Una  smiled,  and  listened. 

Stephen  entered — so  noiselessly  that  she  almost  started 
— and  stooped  over  his  mother. 

"There  are  some  things  in  the  breakfast  room  I 
brought  from  London,  will  you  go  and  see  to  them?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  rose  instantly. 

"Una,  dear,"  she  said,  "see  to  the  tea,  I  will  be  back  di- 
rectly." 

Una  nodded,  and  sat  down  at  the  gypsy  table.  Stephen 
stood  beside  the  fire,  one  white  hand  stretched  out  to  the 
blaze,  his  face  turned  toward  her.  his  eyes  watching  her 
under  their  lowered  lids.  His  heart  beat  nervously,  the 
task  before  him  seemed  to  overmaster  him,  and  he  shrank 
from  it ;  with  one  hand  he  felt  Jack's  letter,  lying  like  an 
asp  in  his  breast  coar  pcclict. 

"There  is  a  cold  wind  tonight,"  he  said  absently.  "Jack- 
said  the  wind  had  gone  round  this  morning." 

"Jack,"  said  Una,  raising  her  eyes,  with  a  sudden 
flame  of  color  in  her  face.  "Have  you  seen  him?  You 
have  been  to  Earl's  Court?" 

Stephen  frowned  as  if  angry  at  making  a  slip. 

"No — no,"  he  said  with  gentle  hesitation.  "No ;  I  saw 
him  in  London.  He  is  not  at  Earl's  Court." 


274  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

"Not  at  Earl's  Court !"  said  Una,  with  surprise.  "How 
is  that  ?  Oh,  he  is  not  ill  ?" 

And  her  breath  came  sharply. 

Stephen  turned  to  the  fire,  with  knitted  brow  and  com- 
pressed lip,  and  fidgeted  with  the  poker. 

"No,"  he  replied,  slowly,  and  as  if  uncertain  what  to 
say— "he  is  not  ill." 

"Then  why  did  he  not  go?"  asked  Una. 

Stephen  remained  silent;  and  still  keeping  her  eyee 
fixed  on  his  pale  face,  she  rose  and  glided  to  his  side. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  panting  voice. 
"What  is  it  ?  You  will  tell  me,  will  you  not  ?  Has  any- 
thing happened  to  Lady  Bell?  Is  she  at  Earl's  Court?" 

"Yes,  she  is  at  Earl's  Court,"  he  said,  almost  bitterly, 
"and  she  is  quite  well,  I  believe." 

"Then,"  said  Una,  in  a  low  voice,  which  she  tried  vainly 
to  keep  steady — "then  it  is  something  concerning  Jack. 
Oh,  why  do  you  keep  me  in  suspense?" 

Her  misery  maddened  him. 

"I  will  tell  you  that  he  is  quite  well,"  he  said,  almost 
sharply.  "I  left  him  in  perfect  health.  I  dined  with 
him,  and  he  made  an  excellent  dinner." 

"You  are  angry  with  him !  What  has  he  done  to  make 
you  angry?"  she  asked. 

He  raised  her  hand,  and  let  it  fall  with  a  gesture  of 
noble  indignation. 

"What  has  he  done  ?"  he  repeated,  as  if  to  himself.  "I 
can  find  no  words  to  describe  it  adequately.  My  poor 
Una!" 

And  he  turned  to  her,  and  laid  his  hand  caressingly  and 
pityingly  on  her  arm. 

Una,  white  and  cold,  was  all  unconscious  of  his  touch. 

Stephen  drew  her  gently  to  a  low  seat,  and  stood  over 
her,  his  hand  resting  with  the  same  caressing  pity  on  her 
arm. 

"Yes,  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and  gen- 
tle. "Would  to  Heaven  I  had  been  spared  the  task.  Dear 
Una!  you  will  be  calm — I  know  your  brave  spirit  and 
true,  courageous  heart.  You  will  summon  all  your 
strength  to  bear  the  blow  it  is  left  for  me  to  deal  you— 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  275 

me  who  would  lay  down  my  life  to  spare  you  a  moment's 
pain !" 

She  scarcely  heeded  him.  Her  eyes,  fixed  on  his  face, 
were  dilated  with  fear  and  dread,  her  lips  white  and  apart 
with  suspense. 

"Tell  me,"  she  murmured.  "It  is  something  to  do  with 
Jack?" 

"It  is,"  he  said..    "It  is." 

"He  is  dead !"  she  breathed. 

And  her  eyes  closed,  as  a  shudder  ran  through  her 
frame. 

"Would  to  Heaven  he  had  died,  ere  fhis  night's  work," 
said  Stephen,  in  a  low,  fierce  voice.  "No;  I  have  told 
you  the  truth.  I  left  him  well  and — Heaven  forgive  him 
—happy." 

Una  drew  a  long  breath,  and  smiled  wearily. 

"What  can  you  have  to  tell  me  about  him  that  is  so 
dreadful,  if  he  is  alive  and  happy?" 

"He  is  alive,  but  he  must  be  dead  to  you,  dear  Una," 
said  Stephen. 

"Dead  to  me!"  repeated  Una,  as  if  the  words  had  no 
meaning  for  her.  "Dead  to  me!  I — I  do  not  under- 
stand." 

Then,  as  he  stood  silent,  with  a  look  of  gentle  pity  and 
sorrow  on  his  pale  face,  a  sharp  expression  of  apprehen- 
sion flashed  across  her  face. 

"Say  that  again,"  she  said.  "You — you  mean  to  teli  me 
that  he  has  left  me?" 

Stephen  lowered  his  head. 

Una  was  silent,  while  the  clock  ticked  three,  then  three 
words  came  swiftly  and  sharply  from  her  white  lips : 

"It  is  false !" 

Stephen  started. 

"Would  to  Heaven  it  were,"  he  murmured. 

"Gone !  left  me  without  a  word,"  said  Una,  with  a  smile 
of  scorn.  "Can  you  ask — can  you  expect  me  to  believe 
it?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen.  "No  one  would  believe  such  base 
and  hideous  treachery  without  proof." 

"Proof!"  she  echoed,  faintly,  and  with  sudden  sinking 
of  the  heart.  "Proof !  Give  it  to  me !" 


276  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OE, 

Stephen  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket  slowly  and 
reluctantly. 

Una  saw  it  and  shivered. 

"It  is  from  him;  give  it  to  me/'  she  said. 

And  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Stephen  took  it  in  his,  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"Wait — for  Heaven's  sake  wait,"  he  murmured,  with 
agitation.  "I  meant  to  hreak  it  to  you — to  explain " 

"Give  it  to  me,"  was  all  she  said,  and  she  shook  his  hand 
off  impatiently. 

"T&ke  it,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice, 
"take  it,  and  would  to  Heaven  he  had  found  some  other 
messenger  to  bear  it." 

Una  took  the  letter  and  slowly  but  steadily  carried  it 
to  another  part  of  the  room. 

There  she  stood  and  looked  at  it  as  if  she  were  waiting 
to  gain  strength  to  open  it. 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  an  eternity  to  Stephen,  who 
was  watching  her  in  the  glass,  she  broke  open  the  en- 
velope and  read. 

Not  twice,  but  thrice  she  read  it,  as  if  she  meant  to 
engrave  every  line  on  her  heart,  then  she  thrust  the  letter 
in  her  bosom  and  came  back  to  the  fire. 

Stephen  turned,  and  with  a  low  cry  of  alarm  at  sight 
of  her  altered  face,  moved  toward  her;  but  she  put  up  her 
hand  to  keep  him  back. 

Altered!  Not  only  in  face  but  in  bravery.  A  minute 
ago  she  had  been  a  gentle-hearted,  suffering,  tortured 
girl,  now  she  was  an  injured,  deserted  woman. 

"Thanks,"  she  said,  and  the  words  fell  like  ice  from  her 
lips.  "You  spoke  of  an  explanation.  Will  you  tell  me  all 
you  know,  Stephen  ?" 

"Pray — not  now,"  he  murmured.     "Tomorrow " 

But  she  stopped  him  with  a  smile,  awful  to  see  in  its 
utter  despair  and  unnatural  calmness. 

"Now,  please." 

"It — it  is  too  easy  of  explanation,"  said  Stephen 
hoarsely.  "He  was  tempted  and  he  has  fallen.  He  has 
bartered  his  honor  for  gold.  Ask  me  no  more." 

Una  drew  a  long  breath. 
i    "It  is  needless,"  she  said.    "You  mean  that  he  has  left 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  277 

me,  because  I  am  poor,  for  Lady  Earlsley,  who  can  make 
him  rich." 

Stephen  turned  away  and  sighed  heavily. 

Una  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  sat  down  at  the 
tea-table. 

"You  will  have  some  tea?"  she  said  calmly. 

Stephen  started  and  looked  at  her.  She  had  taken  up 
the  cream  ewer  with  an  unfaltering  hand.  Great 
Heaven!  could  it  be  possible  that  she  did  not  feel  it— 
that  she  did  not  really  love  Jack  after  all !  A  wild  feeling 
of  exultation  rose  within  his  heart. 

"Thank  Heaven !"  he  murmured,  "you  can  meet  such 
treachery  as  it  deserves — with  scorn  and  contempt." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  strange  smile  on  her  cold, 
white  face,  and  held  out  a  tea-cup.  But  as  he  came  near 
her,  the  cup  dropped  from  her  hand  with  a  crash,  and 

she  fell  back  like  one  stricken  unto  death. 

*  *  *  * 

That  same  evening,  Lady  Bell  stood  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Earl's  Court.  She  was  richly  dressed,  more  richly 
than  was  usual  with  her;  upon  her  white  neck  and  arms 
sparkled  the  diamond  set  which  she  wore  only  on  the  most 
special  occasions.  The  room  was  full.  Four  or  five  of 
the  country  families  had  been  dining  with  her,  and  the 
buzz  of  conversation  and  sound  of  music  rose  and  fell  to- 
gether confusedly. 

Surrounded,  as  usual,  by  a  little  circle  of  courtiers,  she 
reigned,  by  the  right  of  her  beauty,  her  birth,  and  her 
wealth,  a  queen  of  society. 

Brilliant  and  witty  she,  so  to  speak,  kept  her  devoted 
adherents  at  bay,  her  beautiful  face  lit  up  with  the  smile 
which  so  many  found  so  falsely  fascinating,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing like  the  gems  in  her  hair.  Never  had  she  appeared  so 
beautiful,  so  irresistible. 

Kegarding  her  even  most  critically  one  would  have  as- 
sented to  the  proposition  that  certainly  if  any  woman  in 
tire  world  was  happy  that  night  it  was  Lady  Ipabel  Earls- 

i«y- 

And  yet  beneath  all  her  brilliance  Lady  Bell  was  hiding 
an  aching  heart.     Half  the  country  was  there  at  her  feet, 
only  one  of  all  her  invited  guests  absent,  and  he  a 


278  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

poor,  tireless,  ne'er-do-well.  But  Lady  Bell  would  will- 
ingly, -joyfully  have  exchanged  them  all  for  that  one  man, 
for  that"  scapegrace  with  the  bold,  handsome  face  and 
frank,  fearless  eyes. 

Since  mid-day  she  had  been  expecting  him.  Like  Una, 
her  eyes  had  wandered  to  the  clock,  and  she  had  told  the 
minutes  over;  but  he  had  not  come,  and  now,  with  that 
false  gayety  of  despair,  she  was  striving,  fighting  hard  to 
forget  him. 

But  her  eyes  and  ears  refused  to  obey  her  will,  and 
were  still  watching  and  waiting,  and  suddenly  her  glance, 
wandering  over  her  fan,  saw  a  figure  standing  in  the  door- 
way. 

It  was  not  a  man's,  it  was  that  of  Laura  Treherne's— 
Mary  Burns. 

Not  one  of  them  around  her  noticed  any  difference  in 
her  smile  or  guessed  why  she  dismissed  them  so  easily 
and  naturally.  She  did  not  even  march  straight  for  the 
door,  but  making  a  circuit,  gradually  reached  the  hall. 

Pale  and  calm  and  self-possessed  as  usual,  the  strange 
maid  was  waiting  for  her. 

"Well !"  said  Lady  Bell,  and  her  voice  was  scarcely  above 
a  whisper.  "Has — has  he  come  ?" 

"No,"  said  Laura  Treherne.  "But  though  your  lady- 
ship told  me  only  to  let  you  know  of  Mr.  Newcombe's  ar- 
rival, I  thought  it  best  to  bring  you  this  letter." 

Lady  Bell  almost  snatched  it  from  her  hand. 

"You  did  right,"  she  said. 

With  trembling  hands  she  broke  open  the  envelope,  not 
noting  that  it  opened  easily  as  if  it  had  been  tampered 
with,  and  read  the  note. 

"DEAR  LADY  BELL — I  am  sorry  I  cannot  come  as  ar- 
ranged. I  am  in  great  trouble,  and  cannot  leave  London. 

"Yours  truly, 

"JACK  NEWCOMBE/' 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  the  few  lines  for  full  a  minute,  then 
she  pressed  the  letter  to  her  lips.  As  she  did  so,  she  saw 
that  the  slight  figure  in  its  dark  dress  was  still  standing 
in  front  of  her,  and  she  started. 

"Why  are  you  waiting?"  she  said  angrily. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  ,i>;9 

Laura  Trcherne  turned  to  go,  but  Lady  F.oll  failed  to' 
her. 

"Wait.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  going  to  London 
tomorrow  by  the  first  train.  Will  you  have  everything 
ready  ?" 

Laura  Treherne  bowed. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"And — and — you  need  not  sit  up,"  said  Lady  Bell.     - 

"Thanks,  my  lady,"  was  the  calm  response.  And  the 
,  dim  figure  disappeared  in  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Christmas  was  near  at  hand;  but  notwithstanding  that 
nearly  everybody  who  had  a  country  house,  or  an  invitation 
to  one,  was  away  in  the  shires,  London  was  by  no  means 
empty.  There  were  still  "chariots  and  horsemen"  in  th<? 
park;  and  the  clubs  were  pretty  well  frequented.  Not  a 
few  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  after  all  London  is 
at  its  best  and  cheerfulest  in  mid-winter;  and  that  plum 
pudding  and  roast  beef  can  be  enjoyed  in  a  London 
square  as  well,  if  not  better,  than  in  the  country. 

Among  these  was  Lady  Bell.  Although  she  had  two 
or  three  country  houses  which  she  might  have  filled  with 
guests,  she,  for  sundry  reasons,  preferred  to  remain  in 
Park  Lane. 

Perhaps,  like  Leonard  Dagle,  she  thought  that  there 
was  no  place  like  London.  He  would  have  his  idea  that 
there  was  no  place  in  it  like  Spider  Court.  Spring,  sum- 
mer, autumn,  and  winter,  with  perhaps,  just  a  short  in- 
terregnum of  a  fortnight  in  summer,  Leonard  stuck  to 
Spider  Court;  and  on  this  winter  evening  he  was  sitting 
in  his  accustomed  place,  busily  driving  the  pen. 

There  was  a  certain  change  about  Leonard  which  was 
worthy  of  remark.  He  looked,  not  older  than  we  saw  him 
last,  but  younger.  In  place  of  the  weary,  abstracted  air, 
which  had  settled  upon  him  during  the  long  months  of 
the  search  of  Laura  Terherne,  there  was  an  expression  of 
hopefulness  and  energy  which  was  distinctly  palpable. 
The  room  too  looked  changed.  It  was  neater  and  less 
muddled;  and  though,  the  boxing  gloves  and  portraits  of 


280  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

actresses  and  fair  ladies  of  the  ballet  still  adorned  the 
walls,  the  floor  and  chair?  were  no  longer  lumhered  with 
Jack's  boots  and  gloves,  cigar  boxes,  and  other  impedi- 
menta. 

Perhaps  Leonard  missed  these  untidy  objects,  for  he  was 
wont  to  look  up  from  his  work  and  round  the  room  with 
a  sigh,  and  not  seldom  would  rise  and  stalk  into  the  bed- 
room beyond  his  own;  the  bed-room  which  Jack  kept  in 
a  similar  litter,  but  which  now  was  neat  and  tidy — and 
unoccupied. 

At  such  times  Leonard  would  sigh  and  murmur  to 
himself,  "Pook  Jack !"  and  betaking  himself  to  his  writ- 
ing desk  again  would  pull  out  a  locket  and  gaze  long  and 
earnestly  on  a  face  enshrined  therein,  a  face  which  strik- 
ingly resembled  that  of  Laura  Treherne,  and  so  would 
gain  comfort  and  fall  to  work  again. 

Tonight,  he  had  wandered  into  the  unoccupied  room 
and  had  glanced  at  the  portrait  two  or  three  times,  for  he 
felt  lonely  and  would  have  given  a  five-pound  note  to  hear 
Jack's  tread  upon  the  stairs,  and  his  voice  shouting  for 
the  housekeeper  to  bring  him  hot  water. 

"Poor  Jack!"  he  murmured,  "where  is  he  now?"  For 
some  months  had  elapsed  since  he  had  found  a  few  lines 
of  sad  farewell  from  jacic  lying  on  his  writing  desk,  but 
pregnant  with  despair  and  reckless  helplessness.  And 
Jack  had  gone  whither  not  even  Mr.  Levy  Moss,  who 
sought  him  far  and  wide,  could  discover ;  and  not  Mr.  Moss 
alone,  but  Lady  Bell  Earlsley;  fast  as  she  had  traveled 
from  Earl's  Court  to  London,  she  arrived  too  late  to  see 
Jack,  too  late  to  learn  from  his  lips  the  nature  of  the 
trouble  which  he  had  spoken  of  in  his  short  note  to  her. 
And  from  Leonard  even,  she  could  not  learn  much.  He 
could  only  tell  her  that  Jack  and  Una's  engagement  was 
broken  off,  and  by  Jack  himself,  but  for  what  reason  he 
could  not  tell  or  guess.  And  with  that  Lady  Bell  had 
to  be,  not  content,  but  patient. 

"You  were  his  dearest  friend,"  she  said  to  Leonard, 
"can  you  not  guess  where  he  has  gone?" 

And  Leonard  had  shaken  his  head  sorrowfully.  "I 
cannot  even  guess.  He  was  utterly  miserable  and  reck- 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR  ?  ?*1 

less;  he  once  spoke,  half  in  jest,  of  enli?ting.     Ho  wa.<  in 
great  trouble." 

"Money  trouble  ?"  Lady  Bell  had  asked. 

"Money  trouble,"  assented  Len,  and  Lady  Bell  hud 
sunk  into  Leonard's  chair  and  wrung  her  white  hands. 

"Money !  money !  how  I  hate  the  word  !  and  here  I  am 
with  more  of  the  vile  stuff  than  I  know  what  to  do  with !" 

"That  would  make  no  difference  to  Jack,"  Leonard 
said,  quietly;  and  Lady  Bell  had  sighed— ^he  almost 
sobbed — and  gone  on  her  way  as  near  broken-hearted  as  a 
woman  could  be. 

And  then  she  had  sought  for  him  as  openly  as  she 
dared,  but  with  no  result,  save  discovering  that  there  were 
hundreds  of  young  men  who  answered  to  Jack's  descrip- 
tion, and  who  were  all  indignant  when  they  applied  in  re- 
sponse to  the  advertisements  and  found  that  they  were  not 
the  men  wanted. 

And  so  the  months  had  rolled  on,  and  the  "Savage"  was 
nearly  forgotten  at  the  Club,  excepting  at  odd  times  when 
Hetley  or  Dalrvmple  remembered  how  well  he  used  to  tool 
a  team  to  the  "Sheaves,"  or  row  stroke  in  a  scratch  eight. 
My  friend,  if  you  want  to  find  out  of  how  little  impor- 
tance you  are  in  your  little  world,  disappear  for  a  few 
months,  and  when  you  come  back  you  will  find  that  your 
place  has  been  excellently  well  filled,  excepting  in  the 
hearts  of  the  one  or  two  faithful  men  and  women  who 
loved  you. 

The  world  went  on  very  well  without  Jack,  and  only 
two  or  three  hearts  ached,  really  ached,  at  his  absence — 
Len,  honest  Len,  in  his  den  in  Spider  Court;  Lady  Bell, 
in  Park  Lane ;  and  that  other  tender,  loving,  and  tortured 
heart  in  the  old  new  house  at  Hurst. 

Leonard  often  thought  of  that  tender  heart,  and  sighed 
over  it  as  he  sighed  for  Jack.  It  was  still  a  mystery  to 
him,  their  separation;  he  knew  that  Una  was  still  at  the 
Hurst,  but  that  was  all.  No  news  of  her  ever  reached  him. 
At  times  he  ran  across  Stephen  in  London,  and  exchanged 
a  word  or  a  bow  with  him,  and  had  noticed  that  he  was 
looking  better  and  sleeker,  and  less  pale — more  flourishing 
in  fact,  than  he  had  done  for  some  time. 

He,  too  had  come  to  Spider  Court,  and  expressed  pro- 


282  OXLY  0\E  LOVE :  OE, 

found  grief  at  Jack's  disappearance,  and  had  gone  away 
after  wringing  Leonard's  hand  sympathetically. 

Leonard  sat  thinking  over  this  far  more  than  was  good 
to  the  work  he  had  in  hand,  when  he  heard  the  door  open, 
and  half  starting,  said  absently: 

''Nothing  more  wanted  tonight,  Mrs.  Brown." 

But  a  step,  certainly  not  Mrs.  Brown's,  crossed  the 
room,  and  a  heavy  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looking  up,  he  saw  Jack's  face  above  him. 

"Jack !"  he  exclaimed,  clutching  him  as  if  he  expected  to 
see  him  disappear  again.  "It  is  you,  really  you?  Great 
Heaven  !*' 

There  was  reason  for  the  exclamation ;  for  though  it  was 
Jack,  he  was  so  altered  as  to  have  rendered  the  description 
of  him  in  the  advertisements  quite  useless.  Thin,  pale, 
careworn,  it  was  no  more  the  old  Jack  than  the  living 
skeleton  is  Daniel  Lambert. 

"Great  Heaven !    Is  it  really  you,  Jack  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  I !  what  is  left  of  me,  Len.  -  You — you  are 
looking  well,  old  man.  And  the  old  room ;  how  cheery  it 
seems/' 

And  he  laughed — the  shadow  of  the  old  laugh — even 
more  pitiable  than  tears. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  be  quiet ;  don't  speak  just  yet."  said 
Len,  with  a  husky  voice.  "Sit  down.  You've  frightened 
me,  Jack.  Have  you  been  ill  ?" 

"Slightly,"  said  Jack,  with  a  smile. 

"And  where  have  you  been?  Tell  me  all  about  it — no, 
don't  tell  me  anything  yet." 

And  he  went  to  the  cupboard,  and  brought  out  the 
whisky,  and  mixed  a  stiff  glass. 

"Now,  then,  old  man,  where's  the  cigars?  here — here's 
a  light.  Now  then — no;  take  off  your  boots.  I'll  tell 
Mrs.  Brown  to  air  the  bed  and  get  your  dressing-gown. 
And  what  about  supper?" 

And  with  a  suspicious  moisture  in  his  eyes,  Len  turned 
from  the  room. 

"Staunch  as  a  woman,  tender  as  a  man."  It  was  a 
wise  saying,  whoever  wrote  it. 

Jack  sipped  his  whisky  and  water,  and  smoked  his  cigar. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  2S3 

and  pulled  himself  together,  which  was  just   what  Len 
wanted  to  get  him  to  do;  and  then  Len  came  back. 

"Now  then,  old  man,  out  with  it.  Where  have  you 
been  ?" 

"I've  been  to  America,"  said  Jack.  "Don't  ask  me  any 
particulars,  Len;  I  wouldn't  tell  you  much  if  you  did. 
I've  been  nearly  out  of  my  mind  half  the  time,  and  down 
with  one  of  their  charming  fevers  the  remainder.  You 
won't  get  enough  information  out  of  me  to  write  even  a 
magazine  article,  old  man." 

And  he  smiled,  with  a  faint  attempt  at  badinage. 
"Great  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Len,  again;  "and — and  is 
that  all?" 

"That's  all  it  amounts  to,"  said  Jack,  wearily.  "You 
want  to  know  how  I  caine  back,  and  why?  Well,  I  can 
scarcely  tell  why.  I  got  so  sick  of  trying  to  get  knocked 
on  the  head,  and  failing  miserably,  that  I  got  disgusted 
with  the  country,  weary  of  wandering  about,  and  resolved 
that  it  would  be  better  to  come  and  give  Levy  Moss  his 
revenge.  He's  still  alive,  I  hope?" 
"And  you  got  back  ?"  said  Len. 

"I  worked  my  passage  over,"  said  Jack,  curtly.  "I  was 
a  bad  hand,  and  caught  cold  on  the  top  of  the  last  affair, 
and  just  managed  to  pull  myself  together  to  reach  Lon- 
don, and  here  I  am.  Not  very  lucid,  Len,  is  it?  But 
there's  no  more  to  tell." 

Leonard  looked  at  him  with  infinite  pity,  and  mixed 
another  glass  of  whisky. 

"Poor  old  Jack,"  he  murmured. 

"And  now  it's  your  turn,"  said  Jack,  lighting  another 
cigar.  "Tell  me  all  the  news,  Len,  about  yourself  first. 
How  are  Hetley,  and  Dalrymple,  and  the  rest  of  them? 
But  yourself  first,  Len.  You  look  well — better  than  when 
I  left.  Things  have  gone  right  with  you." 

"Then  you  have  not  forgotten  ?"  said  Len,  gratefully. 
"It  is  not  likely,"  he  said,  quietly.    "I  have  thought  of 
you  many  a  night  as  I  lay  burning  with  that  confounded 
fever.     Are  you  married  ?"  and  he  looked  round  the  room 
as  if  he  expected  to  see  Mrs.  Dagle  in  some  dim  corner. 
Leonard  blushed. 


284  0 XL Y  0 X  E  1. 0  V E  ;  OB, 

"Xonsense !  Xo,  Jack,  I'm  not  married.  But — I'm 
very  happy,  old  man — should  have  been  quite  happy,  but 
for  missing  you/' 

Jack  nodded. 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  Glad  it  has  all  worked  round,  and 
that  you  have  missed  me,  too.  Where  is  she — Laura  Tre- 
herne?  You  see  I  remember  her  name/' 

Leonard  hesitated,  and  looked  troubled. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  mustn't  tell  you.  You  see,  Jack, 
there's  still  some  kind  of  mystery  hanging  about  this  love 
affair  of  mine.  It  is  Laura's  wish  that  I  should  keep 
silent  as  to  her  whereabouts.  I  give  you  my  word  I 
don't  understand  why.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  myself 
and  my  affairs,  Jack.  There  is  something  and  someone 
else  you  want  to  hear  about." 

Jack  looked  up  with  a  sudden  start,  and  held  up  his 
hand. 

"No,  not  a  word  I"  he  said.  "Don't  tell  me  a  word.  I 
— that  affair  is  over — dead  and  bT/ried.  Don't  speak  her 
name,  Len,  for  Heaven's  sake.  I,et  that  rest  forever  be- 
tween us." 

Len  sighed. 

"Tell  me  more  about  yourself. '  said  Jack,  impatiently, 
as  if  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  other  subject.  "There 
is  some  mystery,  secret,  you  say/' 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  humoring  him,  "there  is  a  mystery 
and  secret,  which,  much  as  I  love  her,  and  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve she  loves  me,  Laura  will  not  trust— well,  I  will  not 
say  'trust* — whioh  she  does  not  feel  authorized  to  confide 
to  me/' 

"I  remember,"  said  Jack,  "your  telling  me  that  she  had 
some  task,  or  mission,  or  something  to  accomplish — sounds 
strange." 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  with  a  sigh,  "and  that  mission  is 
il  unaccomplished,  and  blocks  the  marriage.     But  I  am 
content  to  wait  and  trust,  and  I  am  happy." 
Jack  sighed. 

l^r011  deserv,e  to  H  old  fellow !"  he  said. 

-No,  I  don't!"  exclaimed  Leonard,  remorsefully,  "for 
Haunting  my  happiness  in  your  face,  Jack.     And  now, 


.WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  ssr, 

here's  the  supper/'  he  added,  as  a  waiter  from  a  neighbor- 
ing chop-house  brought  in  a  tray. 

Jack  sat  down,  and  Leonard  waited  upon  him,  hanging 
over  him,  and  watching  him  as  if  every  mouthful  he  ate 
did  him,  Leonard,  good;  meanwhile  chatting  cheerfully. 

"London  pretty  full,  Jack ;  lots  of  people  up  this  year." 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  then  he  looked  up.  "I  suppose  I 
shan't  be  able  to  show  up,  because  of  Moss,  Len  ?" 

"Oh,  he  won't  know  you  are  here!  And  we'll  cut  it. 
We'll  go  down  to  the  country  somewhere,  Jack,  before 
anyone  sees  you.  You  haven't  met  anyone,  have  you?" 

"Met  them,  no.     But  I  have  seen  Stephen." 

"Stephen  Davenant?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him,  but  I  don't  think  he  saw  me.  He  is 
looking  well." 

Leonard  nodded. 

"He  did  not  see  you — but  it  wouldn't  have  mattered." 

"No,"  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh.  "Len,  this  is  the  first 
'square  meal,'  as  they  say  over  the  sea,  that  I've  enjoyed 
since  I  left.  I'm  very  tired." 

"I  can  see  that,"  said  Leonard.  "Go  off  to  bed,  old 
man.  We'll  have  no  more  questions  tonight." 

Jack  rose  and  took  his  candle. 

"Yes,  one  more,"  he  said,  as  he  held  Leonard's  hand, 
tightly.  "Is— is  she  well,  Len?" 

Leonard  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  think  so " 

"Thaf  s  all,"  said  Jack,  resolutely.  "Good-night,  Len, 
good-night,"  and  he  turned  away  quickly. 

Leonard  stole  into  Jack's  room  several  times  that  night 
and  looked  down  upon  the  tired,  weary  face,  still  hand- 
some for  all  its  lines  and  haggardness,  handsomer  some 
might  have  thought,  for  suffering  sets  a  seal  of  dignity 
upon  a  man's  face  if  there  be  sterling  stuff  in  him. 
Leonard  looked  down  at  it  pityingly. 

"Poor  old  man ;  he  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it  if  any  man 
has." 

Jack  turned  up  at  breakfast  time  looking  much  re- 
freshed. 

"First  good  nighf  s  rest  I've  had  since — oh,  too  long 


286  OXLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

to  remember,  Len.     Dreamed  that  all  that  has  happened 
was  only  a  dream,  and  that  I  was  waking  up  and  going 

to  see "  he  broke  off  suddenly  and  sighed. 

'  Leonard  was  delighted  to  see  him  so  much  better. 

"We'll  leave  town  directly,  Jack,"  he  said.  "I've  just 
done  my  usual  batch  of  work,  and  am  free.  We'll  spend 
our  Christmas  at  some  old  inn " 

Jack  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

"You're  a  staunch  old  man,  Len,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"You'd  sacrifice  your  sweetheart  to  your  friend/' 

Len  colored. 

"I'm  sure  she'd  be  the  first  to  urge  us  to  go/'  he  said. 
"Laura  is  so  unselfish." 

"She  shan't  be  sacrificed  for  me,"  said  Jack.  "Xo,  Len, 
I'll  go  off  by  myself,  before  anyone  knows  I'm  back — 
hallo!  what's  that?" 

It  was  a  footstep  on  the  stairs,  Len  motioned  for  Jack 
to  retreat  into  the  bedroom,  and  only  just  in  time,  for, 
barely  stopping  to  knock,  Mr.  Levy  Moss  opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Dagle,"  said  Moss,  his  eyes  roam- 
ing about  the  room.  "Here  I  am  again,  you  see,  Mr. 
Dagle;  and  where  is  Mr.  Xewcombe?  He's  here,  I  know." 

"If  you  know  so  much  you've  no  need  to  ask,"  said 
Leonard.  "Who  told  you  he  was  here  ?" 

Levy  Moss  winked  one  bleared  eye  cunningly. 

"I'm  smart,  Mr.  Dagle;  I  keep  my  eyes  open  and  my 
feet  a-moving." 

"Just  so,"  said  Leonard,  "and  if  you'll  be  good  enough 
to  move  them  out  of  my  room  I  shall  be  obliged.  Please 
observe  that  these  are  my  rooms,  Mr.  Moss,  and  not  Mr. 
Xewcombe's,  and  that  I  am  not  desirous  of  further  visits 
from  you." 

"You're  sharp,  too,  Mr.  Dagle,"  said  Moss;  "but  Mr. 
Newcombe's  here;  you  don't  want  two  cups  and  saucers, 
and  two  plates,  you  know,  for  your  breakfast,  eh  ?" 

"Get  out!"  said  Len,  who,  when  he  was  roused  was, 
like  most  quiet  men,  rather  hot-headed.  "Get  out !  and, 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  XS1 

by  the  way,  if  you  meet  Mr.  Xewcombe,  I'd  advise  you  to 
keep  clear  of  him;  he's  back  from  America  and  carries  two 
revolvers  and  a  bowie  knife,  and  I  needn't  tell  you,  who 
know  him  so  well,  that  he'd  as  soon  put  a  bullet  through 
your  head  or  stick  the  knife  in  between  your  ribs  as  look 
at  you — far  rather,  perhaps." 

Moss  turned  pale. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Jack  won't  do  anything  rash." 

"I  won't  answer  for  him.  They  don't  think  much  of 
killing  your  sort  of  people  on  the  other  side,  Moss.  Get 
out,"  and  Mr.  Moss  shuffled  out;  Leonard  bolting  the  door 
after  him. 

Jack  came  in  and  sat  down  quietly  and  gravely. 

"I've  frightened  him,"  said  Leonard,  smiling.  "He'll 
keep  clear  of  you  for  a  day  or  two.  But  how  did  he  know 
you  were  back?  He  couldn't  have  been  keeping  watch 
for  all  these  months." 

"I  don't  know;  someone  must  have  seen  me,  and  told 
him ;  I  don't  know  who,  Len.  I'm  going  out." 

"Now,  Jack  ?"  said  Leonard,  fearfully. 

Jack  smiled. 

"No,  Len;  I  won't  cut  it  again  without  telling  you 
and  saying  'good-by.'  I'm  only  going  for  a  walk ;  and  I'll 
be  back  to  dinner." 

Leonard  looked  after  him,  still  rather  anxiously; 
there  was  a  look  of  determination  on  the  pale,  thoughtful 
face  which  alarmed  him. 

Jack  walked  to  Kegent  street — please  mark  that  he 
didn't  call  a  hansom ;  though  Len  had  pressed  some  money 
upon  him — and  then  into  Piccadilly,  and  still  with  the 
thoughtful  look  of  determination  on  his  face,  into  Park 
Lane,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  Lady  Bell's  villa. 

A  footman,  who  knew  not  Jack,  opened  the  door,  and 
Jack,  who  had  not  any  cards,  gave  his  name,  which  the 
footman  gave  to  Lady  Bell's  maid  as  "Mr.  Bluecut." 

Jack  walked  into  the  drawing-room,  every  article  of 
which  was  familiar  to  him;  and  sat  down  in  the  chair 
which  he  had  so  often  drawn  close  to  Lady  Bell's,  only  a 
few  months  back ;  and  yet  how  long,  long  ago  it  seemed. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  Lady  Bell  came  in. 


288  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

He  saw  her  in  the  glass  before  she  saw  him. 

Tastefully  and  simply  dressed,  she  looked,  if  anything, 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  but  not  so  bright  and  restless; 
Jack  noticed  that.  There  was  an  undefinable  change 
about  her,  just  as  if  she  had  gone  through  some  trouble, 
or  had  done  battle  with  some  grief. 

Suddenly  she  looked  round  and  saw  him,  and  stopped; 
one  hand  holding  a  chair,  her  face  going  from  white  to 
crimson. 

Jack  rose. 

"I've  startled  you;  I'm  very  sorry." 

Lady  Bell  recovered  herself,  and  went  to  him  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  a  look  in  her  dark  eyes  that  she  tried 
to  keep  out  of  them. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

"Yes,  it's  I;  like  the  bad  penny,  back  again,  Lady  Bell." 

And  he  sat  down  and  laughed. 

She  sank  into  a  chair  beside  him,  and  looked  at  his 
careworn  face. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"To  America,"  said  Jack. 

"You  have  been  ill  ?"  she  said,  still  more  softly. 

Jack  nodded. 

"Yes.  I'm  all  right  now.  And  you?  You  don't  look 
quite  the  thing?" 

:'Dp  I  not  ?"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "I  am  quite  well. 
And  is  that  all  you  are  going  to  tell  me  of  your  wander- 
ings ?" 

"No.  I'll  tell  you  everything  some  other  time,"  said 
Jack,  quietly. 

"You  are  not  going  away  again,  then  ?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  hinvand  then  away  from  him. 

Jack  flushed. 

"That  depends,"  he  said,  quietly. 
Depends  on  what?"  she  asked. 

"On  you,"  he  said. 

Lady  Bell  started,  and  the  crimson  flush  flooded  her 
tace  and  neck;     Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  looked  away. 
'On  me?"  she  murmured,  faintly. 


WHO  WAS  THE  HE1B?  *8<i 

"On  you,"  said  Jack,  earnestly.  "Lady  Bell,  1  liavr 
come  back  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

She  was  silent;  her  face  turned  from  him,  so  that  he 
could  not  see  the  tears  that  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 

Jack  took  her  hand. 

"Lady  Bell,  I  know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  you — know 
it  quite  well.  There  isn't  a  man  in  the  world  who  is ;  I, 
least  of  all.  I  know,  too,  what  the  world  would  say  if  you 
should  answer  'Yes.'  It  will  impute  all  sorts  of  base  mo- 
tives to  me.  But,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  it  is  not  for 
your  wealth  that  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  am  poor,  and 
in  all  sorts  of  trouble;  but  if  you  were  poorer  than  I  am 
I  would  still  ask  you." 

"You  would?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Yes,  I  can  say  that,  though 
I  tell  you  in  the  same  breath  that  I  am,  at  this  moment, 
being  hunted  for  money.  And  I  think  you  will  believe 
me." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  assent  with  her  hand. 

"Dear  Lady  Bell,"  he  continued,  "during  the  last  few 
months  I  have  been  looking  back  to  those  happy  days  we 
spent  together ;  and  when  a  man's  down  with  the  fever  he 
looks  back  with  keen  and  wise  insight  into  the  turn  of 
things,  and  knows  when  he  was  happy  in  the  past,  and 
with  whom ;  and  I  swore  that,  if  ever  I  pulled  through  and 
got  back,  I  would  ask  you  if  you  did  not  think  we  might; 
be  as  happy  in  the  future  as  in  the  past.  Dear  Bell,  I 
would  try  and  make  you  happy.  Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

Trembling  in  every  limb,  she  sat  silent,  and  with  averted 
face.  Then,  suddenly  and  yet  slowly,  she  turned  her 
eyes  upon  him — eyes  full  of  ineffable  love  and  sadness. 

Slowly,  softly,  she  put  her  other  hand  in  his,  and  smiled 
at  him. 

"You  ask  me  to  be  your  wife,  Jack?" 

"I  do,"  he  said.     "Your  answer,  dear  Bell  ?" 

"Is— No,"  she  said. 

Jack  started,  and  his  eyes  fell  before  the  deep  love  and 
tenderness  in  hers.  He  would  have  drawn  his  hand  away, 
but  she  still  held  it  gently. 


290  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

"Do  you  ask  mo  why,  Jack?  I  will  tell  you.  It  is 
because  you  do  not  love  me." 

He  looked  up  with  a  start,  and  turned  pale. 

Lady  Bell  shook  her  head  gently. 

"Do  not  speak — it  is  useless.  Besides,  you  would  not 
tell  me  a  lie,  Jack.  Listen;  I,  too,  have  been  looking 
back;  I,  too,  have  learned  a  lesson — a  truth — while  you 
have  been  away.  And  that  truth  is,  that  others  may  love 
as  truly  and  deeply  as  myself;  and  that  others  may  find 
it  as  impossible  to  forget " 

Jack,  pale  and  agitated,  stopped  her. 

"The  past  is  buried,"  he  said,  hoarsely — "let  it  rest." 

"It  is  not  buried — it  cannot  be.  See!  it  revives — 
springs  up,  even  without  the  mention  of  her  name.  Jack, 
you  do  not  love  me — you  cannot;  for  all  your  love  has 
been  given,  is  still  given,  to  Una." 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  he  implored,  rising  and  pacing 
the  room. 

Lady  Bell  looked  at  him. 

"Ah,  how  you  love  her  still,  Jack!  See  how  right  I 
was;  and  yet  you  would  come  to  me." 

And  the  tears  fall  slowly. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Jack,  bending  over  her  humbly,  im- 
ploringly— "forgive  me !  You — you  are  right.  But  I 
swear  I  thought -it  was  over  for  me.  You  knew  me  better 
than  I  knew  myself." 

"Yes,  for  a  good  reason,  Jack/'  she  murmured;  "for  I 
love  you." 

Jack  winced. 

"I  have  been  a  brute!"  he  murmured. 

"No,  Jack,"  she  said — and  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile — "you  meant  well  and 
honestly.  You  did  not  know  how  it  stood  with  you.  I 
could  not  have  loved  you  so  well  if  you  had  been  false — if 
you  had  forgotten  her.  I  have  been  thinking  it  out,  Jack ; 
and  I  know  now  that  to  love  once — as  you  and  I  love — is 
to  love  forever." 

"But  it  is  past,"  he  said,  "utterly,  irrevocably  past.  You 
do  not  know  the  barrier  that  stands  immovably  between 
her  and  me." 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  291 

"Do  I  not?"  she  murmured,  inaudibly.  "Be  it  what  it 
will,  your  love  and  hers  stand  firm  on  either  side  of  it. 
But  no  more  of  that,  Jack.  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to 
me — very,  very  glad.  And  though  I  cannot  be  your  wife, 
Jack" — with  what  tenderness  and  sadness  those  two  words 
were  breathed — "I  can  be  your  friend.  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  something." 

Jack  pressed  her  hand.  He  could  not  trust  himself 
to  speak. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  will  not  go  away  again, 
that  you  will  not  leave  London  whatever  happens — mind, 
whatever  happens — without  letting  me  know !  I  may  ask 
that  much,  Jack?" 

"You  may  ask  anything,"  he  said,  huskily;  "I  will  do 
anything  you  ask  of  me — simply  anything." 

"I  think  you  would,"  she  said.  "Then  I  have  your 
promise?  And,  Jack,  this  must  make  no  difference  be- 
tween us ;  you  will  come  and  see  me  ?" 

"I  do  not  deserve  to  come  within  a  mile  of  you." 

She  smiled. 

"And  so  punish  me  for  not  saying  'yes,'  "  she  said,  with 
a  little  attempt  at  archness.  "That  would  be  hard  for 
me,  Jack.  I  should  lose  lover  and  friend  as  well." 

"You  are  the  truest-hearted  woman  in  the  world,"  said 
Jack,  deeply  moved. 

"Except  one,"  said  Lady  Bell.  "There,  go  now,  Jack, 
and  come  to  dinner  tonight,  and  bring  Leonard  Dagle 
with  you — another  true  heart." 

"I  will,"  said  Jack,  simply.     And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

She  held  out  both  of  hers,  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
strange,  wistful  yearning  in  her  eyes. 

"Jack,"  she  breathed,  softly,  "will  you  kiss  me  for  the 
first  and  last  time?" 

Jack  drew  her  toward  him  and  kissed  her.  Then,  with 
a  little  sigh,  she  left  him.  How  Jack  got  out  he  knew 
not,  for  his  eyes  were  strangely  dim  and  useless. 


292  ONLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A  dim  light  was  burning  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
Hurst.  Outside,  the  storm  was  raging  wild  and  pitiless, 
making  the  warm  room  seem  like  a  harbor  of  refuge.  Be- 
side the  fire  sat  Mrs.  Davenant,  half  dozing  over  a  piece 
of  finest  needlework  for, the  village  working  club.  She 
was  alone  in  the  room,  and  every  now  and  then  glanced 
anxiously  toward  the  door.  Presently  it  opened,  and  the 
tall  figure  of  Stephen  entered  and  crossed  over  to  her. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  tremulous  ring  in 
his  voice  and  a  quiver  in  his  lips  that  were  in  marked 
contrast  to  his  usual  smooth  calm. 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  alarm. 
"Una!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Hush !"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"Una,"  and  his  voice  dwelt  on  the  name.  "Una  is  asleep. 
She  has  gone  to  her  own  room  for  a  little  while.  Mother," 
he  said,  slowly,  "she  has  consented." 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  and  trembled :  "Oh,  Stephen !" 

He  nodded,  and  stood  before  the  fire,  looking  up  with 
a  smile  of  undisguised  triumph  and  joy.  "Yes,  she  has 
consented.  It  was — well,  hard  work;  but  my  love  over- 
mastered her.  I  told  her  that  you  agreed  with  me  that 
the  sooner  the  marriage  took  place  the  better.  You  do, 
do  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"She  wants  change;  nothing  but  entire  change  of  life 
and  thought  will  do  her  good.  Mother,  if  she  remained 
here,  if  something  were  not  done,  she  would" — he  paused, 
and  went  on  hoarsely,  "she  would  die !" 

Mrs.  Davenant  shuddered  and  her  eyes  filled.  "My 
poor,  poor  Una !"  she  murmured. 

Stephen  moved  impatiently.  "She  will  not  need  your 
pity,  mother.  A  few  weeks  hence  and  you  will  have  no 
reason  to  pity  her.  I'll  stake  my  life  that  I  bring  her  back- 
here  with  the  roses  in  her  cheeks,  with  the  smile  in  her 
eves,  as  of  old.  Mother,  you  do  not  know  what  such 
love  as  mine  can  do!"  and  his  voice  trembled  with  sup- 
pressed passion. 


WHO  WAS  THE  IIEIH?  293 

Mrs.  Davenant  looked  up  at  him,  tearfully. 

"You — you  are  much  changed,  Stephen,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  am,"  he  said,  with  a  curt  laugh.  "I  am  changed,  am 
I  not?  I  scarcely  know  myself.  And  she  has  done  it. 
She!  My  beautiful  queen,  my  lily!  Yes,  she  shall  be 
happy,  if  man  can  make  her."  He  was  silent  a  moment, 
dwelling  on  his  love  and  future,  and  looked,  as  he  spoke, 
much  changed.  Then  he  awoke  at  a  question  from  his 
mother. 

"When  is  it  to  be,  Stephen?" 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"Tomorrow!"   gasped  Mrs.   Davenant.     "Impossible!" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said,  curtly.  "Remember,  I  told  you 
not  to  be  surprised,  that  it  would  come  suddenly." 

"But " 

He  made  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"Do  you  think  I  have  not  made  preparations?  See," 
and  he  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  "I  have  had  the 
license  for  a  week  past  It  is  no  ordinary  marriage.  We 
want  no  bridesmaid  and  wedding  favors.  She  would  not 
have  them — or  me,  if  you  insisted  upon  it.  It  is  prin- 
cipally on  the  condition  that  the  ceremony  shall  be  quite 
private — secret  almost — that  she  has  consented." 

Mrs.  Davenant  stared  at  the  fire. 

Stephen  smiled. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,  even  yet,  mother,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  ever  know  anything  fail  me?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  shuddered,  or  was  it  the  play  of  the  fire- 
light? 

"Never,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Stephen  smiled  again. 

"I  have  seen  this  coming,  have  seen  my  way  to  it  for 

months  past;  I  have  swept  every  barrier  away "  He 

stopped  suddenly  and  bit  his  lip — "and  now 'for  our  plans, 
mother.  Try  and  collect  yourself;  this  has  surprised  and 
upset  you,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Mrs.  Davenant  sat  up  and  looked  at  him  attentively. 

"Tomorrow  we  start,  without  fuss  or  bother,  for  Cluni- 
ley.  I  have  ordered  them  to  take  a  pair  of  horses  to  the 


294  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OR, 

half-way  house,  so  that  we  can  change  without  loss  of 
time.  I  have  also  sent  a  letter  to  the  clergyman  telling 
him  to  be  prepared  for  us,  and  keep  his  own  counsel.  We 
shall  reach  Clumley,  traveling  easily,  by  half-past  ten. 
There  will  be  no  wedding  breakfast — thank  Heaven !  no 
fuss  or  ceremony.  We  shall  go  straight  from  the  church 
to  London,  and  thence  to  Paris.  Excepting  ourselves  and 
clergyman  no  one  can  know  anything  of  the  matter  until 

the  marriage  is  over,  then "  and  he  drew  a  long  breath 

and  smiled. 

Mrs.  Davenant,  pale  and  trembling,  stared  up  at  him. 

"And — and  Una  ?     Does  she  agree  to  all  this  ?" 

"Una  agrees  to  everything,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "She 
herself  stipulated  that  it  should  be  done  quietly,  and" — 
with  a  smile — "if  this  is  not  quietly,  I  do  not  know  what 
is.  And  now,  my  dear  mother,  go  and  make  what  prepara- 
tions are  absolutely  necessary,  and  make  them  yourself, 
and  unaided.  Eemember  there  must  be  no  approach  to 
any  wedding  party.  We  are  only  going  to  take  an  outing 
for  a  day  or  two.  You  understand?" 

"I  understand,"  she  faltered;  "and  when  will  you  be 
back,  Stephen  ?"  she  asked,  pitiably.  "I — I — you  won't  be 
away  long,  Stephen  ?  I  shall  miss  her  so." 

Stephen  patted  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  mother.  We  shall  not  be  away  too 
long.  I  am  too  proud  of  my  beautiful  bride  to  hide  her 
away.  I  want  to  see  her  here,  mistress  of  the  Hurst.  My 
wife!  my  wife!  Hush!  here  she  comes.  Do  not  upset 
her." 

And,  with  a  quick,  noiseless  step,  he  went  out  as  Una 
entered. 

Framed  in  the  doorway,  she  stood  for  a  moment  like  a 
picture.  Paler  and  slighter  than  in  the  old  days,  she  had 
lost  none  of  her  beauty.  Stephen  had  cause  to  be  proud 
of  his  bride.  There  would  be  no  lovelier  woman  in  Weald- 
shire  than  the  future  mistress  of  the  Hurst.  And  yet,  if 
Jack  could  have  seen  her  that  moment,  what  agony  her 
f ace  would  have  cost  him;  for  his  eyes,  quickened  by  his 
passionate  love,  would  have  read  and  understood  that  sub- 
tle change  that  had  fallen  on  the  beautiful  face;  would 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  205 

have  read  the  settled  melancholy  which  sat  enthroned  on 
the  dark  eyes,  and  gave  them  the  dreamy,  far-away  look 
which  never  left  them  for  a  moment. 

"Communing  with  the  past,  she  walked; 
"Alive,  yet  dead  to  all  the  world." 

Slowly  she  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  just  where  Ste- 
phen had  stood,  and  looked  into  the  fire ;  but  not  as  he  had 
looked — triumphantly,  joyfully;  hut  with  an  absent, 
dreamy  air. 

Mrs.  Davenant  put  out  her  hand,  and  touched  her  arm. 

"Una!" 

She  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  her  questioningly, 
with  a  weary,  uninterested  gaze. 

"Tina,  he — Stephen  has  told  me.  Oh,  my  darling,  I 
hope  you  will  be  happy !" 

Una  smiled — a  cold,  mechanical  smile. 

"Happy?  Yes,  he  says  I  shall  be  happy.  Do  you 
think,"  and  she  looked  calmly  at  the  anxious,  nervous  face, 
"do  you  think  I  shall  be  happy?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  drew  her  toward  her. 

"My  dear,  you  frighten  me.  You — you  are  so — so 
strange  and  cold.  Cold!  Your  hands  are  like  ice.  Oh, 
Una,  do  you  know  what  it  means — this  that  you  are  going 
to  do  ?  It  is  not  too  late.  Think,  Una.  You  know  how 
I  love  you,  dear.  That  I  would  give  all  the  world  to  call 
you — what  you  are,  my  heart  of  hearts — my  own  daugh- 
ter. But,  oh,  Una !  if  you  think,  if  you  are  not  quite  sure 
that  you  will  be  happy " 

Una  looked  straight  at  the  fire. 

"He  says  so,"  she  said,  in  the  same  hard,  cold  voice; 
"he  is  clever  and  wise.  He  is  your  son ;  why  do  you  doubt 
him?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  shivered. 

"I — I  don't  doubt  him,  dear.  Yes,  he  is  my  son ;  he  has 
been  a  good  son  to  me.  But  you  are  to  be  his  wife ;  think." 

"I  have  thought,"  said  Una,  quietly.  "It  will  make  him 
happy — he  says  so;  and  the  rest  does  not  matter  to  me. 
Yes,  I  have  thought;  I  am  tired  with  thinking";  and  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  brow  with  a  sharp  gesture,  half  wild, 


296  ONLY  ONE  LOVE ;  OB, 

•half  weary.  "I  will  make  him  happy,  and  I  shall  always 
be  with  you,  whom  I  love.  What  does  the  rest  matter?" 

Mrs.  Davenant  uttered  a  little  moan, 

"And — and  have  you  quite  forgotten?" 

Una  looked  at  her  calmly,  but  with  a  faint  shadow  in 
her  eyes  and  a  touch  of  pain  on  her  lips. 

"Forgotten!  No,  I  shall  not  forget  until  I  am  dead; 
perhaps  not-then;  who  knows?"  and  the  dreamy  look  came 
back.  "But  that  cannot  matter.  He,  Stephen,  is  con- 
tent; I  have  told  him  all,  and  he  is  content.  He  is 
easily  satisfied."  And  for  the  first  time  a  smile  of  bitter- 
ness crossed  her  lips.  "Why  should  he  love  me  so?" 
she  said,  curtly.  "Why  should  he  be  so  anxious  to  make 
me  his  wife?  I  cannot  understand  it.  Is  it  because  he 
thinks  that  I  am  beautiful?  I  looked  in  the  glass  just 
now,  and  it  seemed  a  dead  face." 

"Una!" 

She  turned  and  smiled. 

"It  is  true.  But  I  have  made  you  cry.  Don't  do  that, 
dear.  At  least,  we  shall  be  together,  shall  we  not  ?" 

In  answer,  the  poor  woman  took  her  in  her  arms,  and 
cried  over  her;  but  Una  shed  not  a  single  tear. 

No,  Stephen  was  not  likely  to  fail.  There  were  not 
likely  to  be  any  hitches  in  anything  he  undertook. 

Even  the  weather  seemed  to  conform  to  his  plans  and 
wishes,  for  the  morning  broke  clear  and  bright,  so  that  he 
might  say: 

"Happy  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on." 

Without  fuss  or  bustle,  the  traveling  chariot,  with  its 
pair  of  handsome  bays,  drew  up  to  the  door;  a  couple  of- 
portmanteaus,  no  larger  than  was  necessary  for  a  day  or 
two's  outing,  were  put  in  the  box;  and  Slummers,  in  his 
tall  hat  and  black  overcoat,  looking  very  much  like  the 
old-fashioned  banker's  clerk,  stood  with  the  carriage  door 
in  his  hand. 

Presently  Stephen  came  down  the  steps,  dressed  in  a 
traveling  suit,  and  looking  as  calm  as  usual,  but  for  the 
touch  of  color  in  his  face.  He  had  grown  younger  in  ap- 
pearance, less  prim  and  formal,  and  altogether  better-look- 
ing. If  he  could  have  lost  the  trick  of  looking  frou»  «»4er 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  297 

his  lowered  eyelids,  he  would  have  been  worth  calling 
handsome.     He  exchanged  a  word  with  Shimmers. 

"All  right,  sir.  The  horses  are  at  iSTethertou;  every- 
thing is  arranged  exactly  according  to  your  wishes." 

"And  no  one  suspects  anything?" 

"Not  a  soul,"  said  Shimmers,  with  a  smile. 

This  morning's  work  was  the  sort  of  thing  Slummers 
liked.  He  was  enjoying  himself,  and  as  happy  as  his 
master. 

Stephen  went  into  the  house  again,  and  presently  Mrs. 
Davenant  and  Una  appeared.  Notwithstanding  Stephen's 
warning,  Mrs.  Davenant's  eyes  were  red ;  but  Una  showed 
no  traces  of  emotion ;  pale,  almost  white,  she  looked  calmly 
around  her. 

In  the  night  she  had  started  out  of  her  sleep,  calling 
wildly,  piteously,  on  Jack  to  come  and  save  her.  But 
there  was  no-  Jack  here — only  Stephen,  smiling  and  watch- 
ful as  he  came  to  meet  her  and  help  her  into  the  carriage. 
For  a  moment  her  hand  touched  his  bare  wrist,  and  he 
felt  it  cold  as  ice  even  through  her  glove;  but  he  smiled 
still  as  if  he  had  no  fear. 

"Once  mine,"  he  thought,  "and  all  will  be  well !" 

Quietly,  with  no  fuss  or  bustle,  Slummers  closed  the 
door,  mounted  the  box,  and  the  horses  started  off. 

Stephen  looked  at  his  watch,  and  smiled. 

"Punctual  almost  to  the  minute,"  he  said.  "Are  you 
warm  enough,  my  darling?" 

And  he  bent  forward,  and  arranged  the  costly  furs  round 
the  slight  form. 

"Quite,"  she  said ;  but  she  shrank  into  her  corner  with  a 
little  shiver. 

Stephen  left  her  to  herself,  but  would  not  remain  silent, 
chatting  with,  or.  rather  to,  Mrs.  Davenant,  in  a  strain  of 
easy  cheerfulness,  his  eyes  wandering  to  the  pale  face  just 
showing  above  the  pile  of  furs. 

Their  hoofs  ringing  on  the  road,  which  a  few  hours  of 
early  frost  had  made  hard,  the  horses,  the  finest  pair  in 
the  county,  for  Stephen  was  critical  in  such  matters  and 
liked  the  best,  spun  the  distance,  and  again,  almost  punc- 


298  ONLY  OXE  LOVE ;  OR, 

tual  to  the  minute,  the  village  of  Netherton,  to  which 
Stephen  had  sent  the  change  of  horses,  was  reached. 

Slummers  stepped  down  from  the  box,  and  was  seen 
to  enter  the  inn  yard. 

"The  horses  ought  to  be  out  and  waiting,"  said  Stephen, 
with  a  little  impatience. 

A  moment  or  two  passed,  and  then  Slummers  caine  to 
the  carriage  door. 

Stephen  jumped  out. 

"What  is  it?  Why  do  you  not  put  the  Horses  to?" — 
for  the  others  had  been  taken  out  and  were  standing  in  the 
stable. 

Slummers,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  changed  color 
'  and  hesitated. 

"There  has  been  some  mistake,  sir." 

"Mistake !" 

"The  horses  are  not  here." 

Stephen  glared  at  him. 

"I  can't  understand  it,  sir.  I  gave  your  orders  most 
minutely,  but  George  has  taken  the  horses  on  to  Clumley." 

Stephen  bit  his  lip  and  glanced  at  the  carriage. 

"Put  the  others  back,"  he  said,  "and  tell  Masters  to 
drive  for  his  life." 

Slummers  hesitated  and  went  to  the  coachman,  coming 
back  in  a  moment  with  an  uneasy  countenance. 

"I'm — I'm  afraid  they  won't  reach  Clumley  in  time, 
sir,"  he  said.  "Masters  says  that  it  is  impossible.  Calcu- 
lating on  fresh  horses,  he  has  forced  them  a  bit  on  the  road, 
and  they  are  used  up.  If  you  will  look  at  them,  sir " 

Stephen  uttered  an  oath,  and  his  face  twitched. 

The  coachman  came  up,  troubled  but  respectful.  It 
was  no  fault  of  his. 

"I  thought  I  should  get  the  change  here,  sir.  I  couldn't 
do  it,  unless  the  horses  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and  a 
wipe  down,  and  then " 

He  paused  and  shook  his  head. 

Stephen  controlled  himself,  though  his  face  was  white. 
"A  quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  said.  "We  will  wait  so 
long,  and  not  a  moment  longer.  Then  drive  as  if  your  life 
depended  on  it.  Do  not  spare  the  horses." 


WHO  WAS  THE  I1E11J?  ayj 

Then  he  went  to  the  carriage  and  forced  a  smile. 

"A  little  delay,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "Would  you  like 
to  get  out  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  darling?" 

Una  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  care";  but  Mrs.  Davenant  looked  at  her  and 
spoke  out. 

"Yes,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "My  dear,  you  are  half 
frozen." 

Stephen  went  to  the  window  of  the  inn  and  looked  into 
the  room,  then  went  back. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  pleasant  fire.  A  rest 
and  the  warmth  will  do  you  good.  Come,"  and,  wrapping 
a  huge  fur  round  her,  he  took  her  on  his  arm  and  entered 
the  inn. 

Mrs.  Davenant  followed  into  the  room.  A  fire  was 
burning  in  the  old-fashioned  grate.  Stephen  drew  a  chair 
near  to  the  welcome  blaze  and  led  Una  to  it.  White  and 
indifferent  she  sat  and  looked  at  the  flames. 

"It  is  only  for  a  few  minutes,  darling,  then  we  shall  be 
off.  Come,  drink  some  of  this,"  and  he  held  a  glass  of 
hot  spirit  and  water  to  her  hand. 

Una  shook  her  head. 

"Thanks,  I  could  not,"  she  said,  simply. 

Stephen  motioned  to  his  mother. 

"See  that  she  takes  some,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
will  go  and  look  after  the  horses,"  and  he  turned.  As  he 
did  so  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady  entered. 

For  a  moment,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  low  room,  Stephen 
did  not  recognize  her,  then  a  chill  fell  on  him  as  if  a  cold 
hand  had  laid  on  his  heart.  He  staggered  back,  and  then 
she  raised  her  veil  and  looked  at  him. 

Not  a  word  passed.  Face  to  face,  eye  to  eye,  they  stood. 
A  moment  passed.  Una  had  not  looked  round,  only  Mrs. 
Davenant  stood  speechless  and  trembling.  Then,  as  if 
with  an  effort,  Stephen  regained  possession  of  his  quaking 
soul,  and  stole  nearer  to  her. 

"Laura,"  he  whispered,  glancing  behind  him.  "You 
here  ?  You  want  me  ?  Well,  let  us  come  outside." 

A  smile,  calm  and  scornful,  flashed  from  her  dark  face. 

"You  cannot  pass,"  she  said. 


300  ONLY  ONE  LOVE;  OR, 

A  wild  devil  leaped,  full  grown,  into  his  bosom,  and  hg 
raised  his  hand  to  strike  her,  but  the  next  instant  he  was 
grasped  by  the  shoulder  and  flung  aside,  and  Gideon  Eolfe 
stood  over  him. 

The  room  whirled  round;  scarcely  conscious  that  other 
figures  had  entered  and  surrounded  him,  he  staggered  to 
his  feet.  Then  a  cry,  two  wrords,  "Father !  Jack !"  smote 
upon  his  ear,  and  with  an  effort  he  turned  and  saw  Jack's 
tall  form  towering  in  the  low  room,  with  Una  clasped 
tightly,  lying  prone  in  his  arms. 

It  \vas  all  over..  Just  as  the  criminal  in  the  dock,  when 
he  sees  the  judge  placing  the  black  cap  on  his  head,  knows 
that  his  doom  is  sealed,  Stephen  knew  that  all  was  lost. 
But  the  will  was  not  all  subdued  yet. 

There  was  Davenant  blood  in  his  veins.  White  to  the 
very  lips,  he  stood  and  glared  at  them,  one  hand  grasping 
the  table,  the  other  thrust  in  his  breast.  Then  an  evil  smile 
curled  the  cunning  mouth. 

"Cleverly  planned,"  he  said,  speaking  as  if  every  word 
cost  him  a  pang.  "You  have  beaten  me,  thus  far.  Gideon 
Eolfe,  I  congratulate  you  upon  the  success  of  your  ma- 
neuvers; in  another  hour  your  daughter  would  have  been 
the  mistress  of  Hurst;  she  will,  now,  I  presume,  be  the 
wife  of  a  beggar." 

Gideon  Rolfe  looked  at  him  with  stern,  immovable  eyes. 

Stephen  smiled  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"You  have  robbed  me  of  my  bride,"  he  said ;  "permit  me 
to  return  to  the  home  which  still  remains  to  me/' 

There  was  an  intense  silence.  Then  a  slight  stir  as 
Jack,  carrying  Una  in  his  arms,  left  the  room,  followed 
by  Mrs.  Davenant.  With  haggard  eyes  Stephen  watched 
them,  then,  with  a  convulsive  movement,  he  took  up  his 
hat. 

"You  will  find  me  at  the  Hurst,"  he  said;  "I  will  go 
there.  If  there  is  any  law  in  the  land  which  can  punish 
you,  I  will  have  it,  though  it  cost  me  a  fortune.  Yes,  I 
will  go  home." 

Still  they  were  silent.  Whether  from  pity,  or  awe  at 
the  sight  of  his  misery,  they  were  silent.  He  looked  round 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  301 

and,  as  if  he  had  called,  Shimmers  glided  to  hi>  .side. 
They  had  already  reached  the  door,  when  a  voice  said . 

"Ttell  him." 

It  was  Jack  who  had  returned  to  the  room. 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice,  grave  and  pitying,  Stephen 
swung  round  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"You  are  here  still,"  he  said,  and  a  glance  of  malignant 
hatred  distorted  his  face.  "I  thought  you  were  in  jail  by 
this  time.  You  were  waiting  to  take  your  wife  with  you. 
It  would  have  been  wiser  to  allow  her  to  go  to  the  Hurst/' 

"Tell  him,"  said  Jack. 

With  a  slow,  almost  reluctant  movement,  Laura  Tre- 
herne  drew  a  paper"  from  under  her  jacket  and  bcJd  it  up. 

Stephen  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  as  if  his  sight  had 
failed  him,  then  he  smiled. 

"The  plot  thickens,"  he  said.  "You  have  robbed  me  of 
my  wife ;  you  have,  no  doubt,  some  ready-forged  document 
to  rob  me  of  my  estate.  Am  I  to  give  the  credit  to  you 
;for  this?"  Then  he  broke  out  wildly,  with  a  mad  laugh. 
"It  is  a  forgery !  a  forgery !  I  will  swear  it.  There  is  no 
'such  will.  The  marriage  never  took  place.  You've  to 
prove  both  yet !  You  are  not  so  clever  as  I  thought.  You 
should  have  stopped  short  where  you  were.  You  have  got 
her,  be  satisfied ;  the  rest  is  mine !  Mine,  and  you  cannot 
take  it  from  me,"  and  he  held  his  clinched  fist  toward  Jack 
as  he  held  all  Hurst  in  his  grasp. 

"Show  him,"  said  Gideon  Rolfe. 

Stephen  waved  his  hand  contemptuously. 

"A  stale  trick,"  he  said.  "A  clumsy  forgery.  You  can- 
not connect  it  with  my  uncle's  death.  Go  to  your  lawyer — 
Hudsley,  if  you  will;  he  will  be  ready  enough  to  help  you 
— and  he  will  tell  you  that  proof  is  impossible." 

As  he  spoke  his  voice  grew  clearer.  It  was  a  relief  to 
his  overwrought  brain  to  fight  them  on  ground  he  had 
often  mentally  surveyed.  With  an  insolent  smile  on  his 
face  lie  leaned  both  hands  on  the  table  and  looked  at  them. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  have  not  won  everything  yet. 
The  Hurst  is  mine ;  I  laugh  your  forgery  to  scorn.  I  will 
spend  every  penny  of  the  estate  to  contest  it.  I  assert  that 
this  paper  was  forged — last  night — if  you  like.  You  can- 


302  OXLY  OXE  LOVE;  OR, 

not  prove  it  was  in  existence  an  hour  sooner;  I  defy  you. 
You  have  overreached  yourselves.  Take  care !  This  is 
your  hour.  Mine  will  come  when  I  see  you  in  the  dock." 

In  his  excitement  he  had  not  noticed  the  entrance  of 
the  bent  figure  of  Skettle,  and  he  turned  with  a  start  as 
the  thin,  dry  voice,  close  to  his  elbow,  croaked : 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Stephen.  That's  their  weak  point — 
want  of  connection.  If  they  could  carry  it  back,  say  to 
the  night  of  the  squire's  death,  now,  it  would  be  different." 

Stephen  looked  round  with  a  cunning  smile  of  defiance. 

"This  old  fool  will  bear  me  out.    Show  him  your  will." 

"A  daring  forgery  this,  Mr.  Stephen,  if  it  is  a  forgery. 
Leaves  the  Hurst  to  Miss  Una,  the  squire's  legitimate 
daughter.  Fifty  thousand  to  Master  Jack;  and  a  set  of 
sermons  to  you." 

"No  doubt,"  he  said,  with  a  hoarse  laugh;  "it  was  not 
worth  their  while  to  do  things  by  halves." 

"Been  scorched,  too,"  said  Skettle.  "Bit  torn  out  by  the 
seal.  Now,  if  they  could  find  that  bit  in  the  possession  of 
a  respectable  man,  who  could  prove  that  he  found  it  on  the 
night,  say,  of  the  squire's  death,  well — it  would  go  hard 
with  you,  Mr.  Stephen." 

"But  they  cannot." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Skettle;  and  slowly  drawing  out 
a  leather  pocket  book  of  ancient  date,  he  took  out  a 
piece  of  paper  and  fitted  it  to  the  will. 

"It  is  a  conspiracy!" 

"It  is  the  will  I  saw  you  looking  for  the  night  of  the 
squire's  death." 

"Let  me  go."  And  leaning  heavily  on  the  arm  of  his 
fellow-knave,  he  moved  with  the  gait  and  bearing  of  an  old 
man,  to  the  door. 

"Great  Heaven,  this  is  awful !"  said  Jack. 

******** 

Winter  had  passed  and  spring  had  clothed  the  earth  with 
her  soft,  green  mantle,  and  in  her  glad  sunlight  that  sat 
like  a  benediction  on  the  great  elms  and  smooth  lawn  of 
Hurst,  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  standing  on 
the  stone  steps  that  led  up  to  the  entrance. 

It  was,  in  a  word,  the  wedding  day  of  Squire  Jack  New- 
combe  and  Miss  Una  Davenant,  and  these  good  and  tried 


WHO  WAS  THE  HEIR?  303 

friends  were  waiting  about  the  steps  to  see  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  start  for  their  honeymoon. 

That  Len  and  Laura  and  Lad-y  Bell  should  be  there 
calls  for  no  surprise,  but  how  comes  it  that  Gideon  l{oll'« 
should  be  a  willing  witness  to  the  marriage  of  Una  witli 
one  of  the  hated  race  of  Davenants?  Well,  when  the 
cause  of  hatred  is  removed,  all  hate  vanishes  from  the  heart 
of  an  honest  man. 

On  the  day  he  learned  that  the  old  squire  had  not 
wronged  the  girl  he  had  stolen  from  Gideon,  Gideon's 
hatred  had  flown,  and  in  its  place  had  sprung  up  a  longing 
for  atonement ;  and  what  better  step  could  he  take  toward 
burying  the  old  animosity  than  in  giving  his  adopted 
daughter  to  the  man  of  her  choice — the  man  who  would 
make  her,  as  her  mother  had  been  before  her,  the  Squire 
of  Hurst's  wife? 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  he  stood  silently,  but  not 
grimly  waiting  for  his  daughter — for  she  was  still  his 
daughter — to  pass  out  to  the  new  life  of  happiness.  And 
presently  there  rose  a  buzz  and  a  hum  of  excitement  in 
the  house,  and  the  stalwart  figure  of  Jack  appeared  on  the 
top  step.  A  moment  later  and  the  beautiful  face  of  Una 
was  by  his  side.  No  longer  pale,  but  bright  with  blushes, 
and  glowing  with  health  and  happiness,  she  stood,  half  tim- 
idly, pressing  close  to  the  proud  fellow  beside  her. 

Is  it  all  a  dream  in  her  eyes,  dimmed  as  they  are  by 
happy  tears?  Can  it  be  true  that  Jack  is  all  her  own — 
that  these  good  friends  and  true  are  really  clustering 
round  her,  bidding  her  Godspeed  and  yet  hindering  her 
going  as  if  they  were  loth  to  let  her  go  ?  Perhaps  she  docs 
not  realize  it  all  until  they  part  and  let  her  pass  to  where 
the  old  bent  figure  of  Stephen's  mother  stands  waiting 
to  see  the  last  of  the  girl  whom  she  has  loved  and  still 
loves  as  a  daughter. 

Then  as  Una  takes  the  trembling  figure  in  her  arms  and 
kisses  the  pale  face,  she  realizes  it  all,  and  through  sobs 
she  hears  the  faltering  voice  murmuring: 

"God  bless  you,  my  darling!    God  bless  and  keep  you!" 

And  as  the  broken  benediction  falls  from  the  trembling 
lips,  the  crowd  stand  back,  silent  and  tearful,  and  Jack  ;md 
his  bride  are  allowed  to  enter  the  carriage  at  last.  Then 


304  OXLY  OXE  LOVE. 

breaks  forth  the  cheer  from  outside  the  gates,  and  so, 
wafted  around  by  blessings  and  good  wishes,  they  com- 
mence their  real  life.  A  month  later  they  will  come  back 
to  find  those  friends  who  saw  them  depart,  eager  to  wel- 
come them  back. 

"No  coming  home  to  a  silent  house,  my  wild  bird !"  says 
Jack.  "We'll  have  them  all  here,  everyone  of  them.  I'd 
have  all  the  world  to  see  my  darling,  if  I  could/' 

"My  darling!  my  darling!  they  might  take  all  the  rest 
if  they  would  leave  me  you." 

And  Stephen  ?  There  is  no  difficulty  in  finding  Stephen 
— he  is  too  public  a  man.  You  can  see  and  hear  him  any 
evening  during  the  month  of  charitable  meetings,  if  you 
will  but  go  to  the  proper  places. 

There  amongst  philosophers  and  social  reformers,  you 
will  see  a  tall,  thin  gentleman,  with  a  white  face  and  spot- 
less linen,  who,  when  he  comes  forward  to  make  his  speech, 
is  received  with  deafening  cheers,  and  who  never  fails  to 
draw  tears  from  the  audience  by  his  pathos  and  tender- 
souled  eloquence;  and  when  the  meeting  is  over,  if  you 
wait  beside  the  private  entrance  to  the  hall,  you  will  see 
another  tall,  thin,  black-coated  man,  who  is  like  a  reflection 
of  the  great  philanthropist  for  whom  he  is  waiting,  and 
who,  when  he  emerges,  will  take  him  by  the  arm  and  lead 
him  to  his  brougham.  For,  excepting  when  he  is  before 
the  public,  Stephen  is  an  injured,  broken-down  man,  only 
at  times  able  to  whine  out  the  story  of  the  wrongs  wrought 
him  by  the  hands  of  those  he  most  trusted.  By  his  own 
account  he  has  been  robbed  of  his  wife,  his  estate,  his  all, 
and  left  to  the  charity  of  a  generous  public ;  and  it  is  only 
Slummers,  besides  Stephen  himself,  who  knows  that  a 
check  arrives  punctually  each  quarter  from  Jack's  lawyer 
for  the  support  of  the  man  who  returns  forgiveness  and 
generosity  with  undying  hate  and  calumny.  Yes,  Stephen 
Davenant  is  regarded  as  a  deeply  injured  man,  and  when 
he  appears,  with  his  pale  face,  and  soft,  mournful  voice, 
there  is  always  a  show  of  handkerchiefs. 

But  Jack  and  Una  are  quite  content,  and  whenever  his 
name  is  mentioned,  it  is  with  more   pity   than   anger. 
There  is  no  room  for  aught  else  in  their  hearts  but  love. 
(THE  END.] 


PATRIOTIC 


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A.     TjOnohU9   t<\L    CO.  CHICAGO 


LIFE  AND  SAYINGS  OF 

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By  THOMAS  W.  HANDFORD 
Introduction  by  Charles  Walter  Brown,  A.  M. 

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25  Little  Susy  Stories  contain- 

ing: Little  Susy's  Six 
Birthdays,  Little  Susy's 
Six  Teachers,  Little  Susy's 


26  Margery      Morton's     Girl- 

hood, A.  Corkran. 

27  Meg's  Friend,  A.  Corkran. 

28  Merle's  Crusade,  Carey. 

29  Naughty  Miss  Bunny,  Mnl- 

holland. 

30  Old,  Old  Fairy  Tales. 

31  Our  Bessie,  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

32  Palace  Beautiful,  Meade. 

33  Pilgrim's     Progress,     111., 

John  Bunyan. 

34  Polly,    A    New   Fashioned 

Girl,  Meade. 

35  Queenie's  Whim,  Carey. 

36  Robin     Redbreast,      Mrs. 

Molesworth. 

37  Schonberg-Cotta     Family, 

Mrs.  Charles. 

38  Six  to  Sixteen,  Mrs.  Ewing,. 
89    Six  Little  Princesses  and 

What  They  Turned  Into, 
Mrs.  Prentiss. 

40  Sweet   Girl   Graduate,    A, 

L.  T.  Meade. 

41  Taming  a  Tomboy,  Emmy 

von  Rhoden. 

42  Three  Bright  Girls,  A.  E. 

Arm  strong. 

43  Two  Little  Maids,  Verdier. 

44  "  Us,"     Mrs.    Molesworth. 

45  Very   Odd   Girl,   A   A.    E. 

Armstrong. 

46  Water  Babies,  C.  Kingsley. 

47  Wide,    Wide     World,     E. 

Wetherell. 

48  Wild  Kitty,  L.  T.  Meade. 

49  World  of  Girls,  A,  Meade. 

50  Young    Mutineer,    Meade. 


Little  Servants,  Prentiss. 
For  sale  by  all  Book  and  News  Dealers,  or  sent  to  any  address 
in  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  postage  prepaid,  on. 
receipt  of  price,  in  currency,  money  order  or  stamps. 

M.    A.    DONOHUE    &    COMPANY 
407-429  DEARBORN  STREET,        •        CHICAGO 


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